Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bullet doesn’t graze him.

No – the bullet sinks right into his flesh, ripping through him with ease and leaving a blazing fire in its wake. His entire arm is immediately engulfed in pain – blinding, awful pain – and he just about manages to swallow down his bewildered shout, trapping it behind a wall of tense, clenched teeth. He can’t afford to be distracted by an injury. He has to focus on pushing forward, making it to the control room, killing the fucking bastard who had single-handedly ripped from his palms everything he’d ever cared about.

“Are you alright?” Jung-bae looks over, concerned, obviously noticing something’s wrong. Gi-hun doesn’t think he’s alright, he thinks the bullet might have hit an artery actually, if the sheer amount of blood suddenly gushing out of his arm is anything to go by. It’s bad, but he doesn’t want to distract Jung-bae. He knows if he lets on how injured he really is, his friend will rush over and help him or worse, demand they retreat entirely. They can’t. Not now that they’re so close to finally putting an end to this. Gi-hun doesn’t want to be the reason all of this bloodshed was for nothing.

He hums and answers, trying his best to sound as calm as one can be in their current situation.

“I’m fine. It’s just a graze.” He struggles to get the words out, voice shaking as he grasps his arm tightly with his other hand. The fire was getting worse, he realises. It had spread to his hand – almost far enough to completely paralyse his entire left arm – and the pain had reached an intensity so great that Gi-hun is worried if he clenched his teeth any tighter, he might break his jaw. Shit. They needed to storm the control room, and they needed to do it now.

“If you die before me, I’ll kill you.” Gi-hun wants to laugh at the ridiculous comment, but he’s also trying his hardest not to scream in agony as he slowly bleeds to death. Trying to ignore his arm, he can’t help but jab back, high off the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to outlive you.” Something feels off about the words as they leave his mouth and a bad feeling collects in his gut that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, not right now. He shoves it aside and focuses on aiming his gun into the stairwell once more.

As he pulls back, he hears a voice behind him, trying to get his attention.

“Gi-hun! Did you find the control room?” Gi-hun spins around and sees Young-il, who crosses the short distance between them quickly. Gi-hun’s glad to see that he’s not injured at all, a substantial weight lifting off his chest when he realises so. The relief helps distract him from his own injuries, slightly douses the fire raging in his arm, which in turn helps him think a little more clearly about what they need to do next.

“I think it’s right up there, but we can’t go this way. I want you to find another way.” Despite his and Jung-bae’s efforts, the stairwell was still well-guarded. Trying to push forward would be a death-sentence for all of them.

“I did a quick scan of the layout here. I’m sure there’s a way to go around them. I want you guys to keep their focus on you. We’ll hit them from behind.” It’s a smart plan and just the thing Gi-hun would have expected from someone as intelligent as Young-il. The man had proven himself over and over again to be helpful and kind to Gi-hun and the others and in a situation like this, that meant everything. He would admit, the past few days had left him feeling very fond of the man in front of him – protective, even. It was part of the reason he’d wanted Young-il to stay behind earlier, to make sure someone so good wouldn’t get hurt by Gi-hun’s risky plan. No offense to Jung-bae.

Besides, Gi-hun wanted, needed, to get Young-il out of here for another reason. Gi-hun had money, lots of it in fact, and he fully intended to use it to pay for Young-il’s wife’s medical treatment.

“Okay.” The other man begins to turn away but Gi-hun is suddenly struck by a worry he can’t ignore. He moves without thinking, powered by the desire to ensure the safety of his friend.

“Wait. Here, take this. You’re going to need it.” From his pocket, he pulls out his only spare bullets and thrusts them towards Young-il desperately. The other man looks down at the bullets like he can’t think of a reason why Gi-hun would want to give them to him. Gi-hun can. He trusts them man in front of him fully and wholly. He trusts him with his life.

Young-il looks back up and stares, intensely, as he speaks again.

“Are you sure?” Gi-hun finds it a funny question and the way Young-il’s stare bores into his own eyes makes him think that maybe he’s asking a completely different question that Gi-hun can’t figure out. Even so, Young-il searches his face like he’s looking for an answer.

“Dae-ho will be back with more.” And even if he isn’t, Gi-hun is sure Young-il could make do with this. Young-il was simply that magnificent. Gi-hun didn’t think he’d ever had so much hope in someone before, even in the previous games where he’d found his life in the hands of others so often. It felt nice, he decided.

Young-il’s eyes continue to dart across his face: eyes to nose to lips-

Then, he takes the bullets, almost hesitantly.

Gi-hun spares a final, thorough glance at the other man’s expression and is thrown off momentarily by what he sees there. Young-il looks crushed, shattered, like he has suddenly realised something devastating. It’s subtle of course, but Gi-hun has spent the past few days staring at the lines of the other man’s face, learning to read what each one said with alarming fluency. Gi-hun assumes what he sees is the realisation that what might happen next is frighteningly unclear. It is to all of them. Young-il might die and never bring money back for his wife and just the thought almost has Gi-hun telling the man to stop again so he can reassure him that he’ll do whatever is necessary in order for the woman to receive the treatment she needs. He almost does, but unfortunately, he knows they can’t afford to waste any more time.

Gi-hun grasps the gun in shaking hands once more and turns back towards the stairwell, chest tight. Behind him, Young-il and the men with him crouch down and move past, while Jung-bae and him unleash another wave of bullets at the guards further up the stairs. Young-il passes safely and Gi-hun can’t help but audibly sigh in relief, something fragile and tentative blooming in his heart. Optimism.

From then on, all they can do it wait. Occasionally, they’ll lean over with their guns and fire a few shots in order to keep up the ruse of a fight, but now they’re relying on Young-il’s attack from behind to allow them to proceed to the control room. Luckily, they’re not waiting too long until his radio beeps. Gi-hun immediately grapples for the device and holds it up to his ear, breathing frantically.

“Gi-hun, we found it.” Pride floods Gi-hun’s chest and he almost sobs at the hope flourishing in his chest at the mere sound of Young-il’s voice, lovely and dulcet. They’re so close. When they get out of here, Gi-hun thinks he might take the other man out for soju every night for the rest of their lives. It’s such a nice idea, but a sudden eruption of pain in his arm snaps him back to reality. Right. He has to actually make it out of here to do that.

“Start attacking and draw their attention. Then, we’ll hit them from behind.” The rest of Young-il’s transmission reaches him and fills him with a spontaneous burst of determination. This is it. With resolve, he grips his radio with trembling fingers, holding the device so the speaker is almost pressed against his lips.

“Okay, got it!” He clumsily shoves the device back into his pocket, blood loss beginning to make his movements sluggish, and steels himself. He’s still got some fight left in him and he’s going to use it to get these people home. Whether he dies here, or miraculously makes it out alive, he wants to finally talk, mask-off, with the fucker who sent them all here. Then, probably, he’s going to send a few bullets into that asshole’s face. If he does, Gi-hun thinks he can die satisfied.

For what he hopes is one of the last times, he leans around the corner and aims his gun into the stairwell. In the corner of his eye, he sees Jung-bae do the same. The shots he takes are sloppy – not a single one gets close to hitting a target, but thankfully, that’s not the point. As planned, the guards on the stairs focus on them, firing back as Jung-bae and him pull themselves behind the safety of the wall again. Come on Young-il.

They wait, but nothing happens.

All of a sudden, the delicate ball of optimism inside him shrivels up, flaking away into nothing in a matter of seconds. No. A dense pit of dread remains, like Gi-hun knows deep down what’s about to happen next, and it’s a feeling so encompassing that he almost forgets about his impending death, slowly creeping up on him. His arm is still ablaze, but he can only think of Young-il as he rips his radio out of his pocket again, messily fumbling for the button.

“Young-il, what’s going on? Are you attacking?” The cold claws of fear dig into him as he forces each word out of quivering lips. Speaking is becoming extremely challenging, like trying to walk in a straight line whilst drunk. Distantly, Gi-hun knows the adrenaline that had been powering him forward has started wearing off, replaced instead by a weighty tiredness that begins to tug at each of his bones. It’s insistent, and Gi-hun isn’t sure how much longer he can ignore it.

“Gi-hun, I’m sorry. It’s all over. They got us too.” Young-il’s voice is strained and if Gi-hun’s stomach could drop any lower, it would. The determination that had filled him pours out of him in waves, leaving his entire body numb and disturbingly cold aside from the inferno emanating from his bullet wound. Not Young-il. Anyone but Young-il, please.

“Young-il, what happened? Are you alright?” Gi-hun can only hope that he’s not injured badly. That Young-il had just been cornered and forced to surrender-

A gurgle, wet and dying, is the only response he receives.

“Young-il! Young-il! Answer me!” It’s desperation that rips the words from his throat. The terrifying thought of the other man lying, shot down, as his eyes glaze over makes his own vision cloud over with hot, unshed tears. He’d wanted to get Young-il out of here most of all. Gi-hun had failed him.

Then, the echoing, undeniable, sound of brief gunfire fills the hallway and it finally stuns Gi-hun into silence. He can feel Jung-bae staring but he can’t muster up the strength to turn his head and face him. The radio clatters to the ground, breaking upon impact, as the pain in his arm reaches a new crescendo and Gi-hun knows what that means. He hunches over, bunching bloody fingers into the creased fabric of his jacket, finding purchase as he attempts to stop the river of crimson flowing out of him. It’s too late. Jung-bae shouts something at him but to his brain, it’s just a jumble of disjointed sounds crashing into one another. It’s too late.

Up the stairs, there’s the sound of more gunfire, presumably the guards closing in, and Gi-hun knows what’s coming next, even through his rapidly thickening haze of confusion. Across from him, he sees Jung-bae slowly stepping around the corner, hands raised in surrender. His friend’s gun falls out of his hands and collides with the floor with such resounding finality that it shakes Gi-hun himself awake, out of the cold grip of unconsciousness. It’s over. They’d lost.

He jerks himself forward, falling to his knees beside Jung-bae, as the final remnants of fight bleed out of him. He gazes down at the bloodstains painted across his clothing, mesmerized, as he struggles to lift his hands to the back of his head – wound resisting the simple action. The torn flesh screams in pain at the mere thought of movement, in fact, and Gi-hun curses the source of his weakness, his demise, with as much vigour as he can manage. Shit.

“Player four hundred and fifty-six.”

He sees the shoes in front of him before he hears them. Looking up at the Frontman takes energy that Gi-hun is surprised to find he barely has and this disappointing realisation ends up pissing him off more than he expects it to. He’d been hoping that he’d at least be able to shoot a few more insults, verbal daggers if you will, at the fucker before he died. As it stands however, his mouth feels like it’s stuffed to the brim with cotton balls, keeping any words trapped firmly in his throat.

It doesn’t seem to matter anyway, as the Frontman is speaking way before he could have come up with anything to say first.

“Did you have fun playing the hero?” That fucking voice. It’s a chilling sound that’s haunted him for the past couple years of his life; infiltrating his dreams and invading empty moments. Sometimes, he’d even hear the echoes of it flitting around his head as he’d lay awake at night, unable to sleep, often swimming in alcohol and a puddle of his own tears. It’s a voice that fills him with a nasty emotion, so strong and all-consuming that Gi-hun can’t properly name it, at least not in his current mental state. It stirs up some part of him, that’s for sure.

The Frontman brings his hand up to his mask slowly, almost as if he’s unsure if he should, and grips the edges with gloved digits. He pauses, and Gi-hun almost chokes out a mocking laugh at the unnecessary hesitation, the makeshift suspense, in the asshole’s movement. He knows whatever face lies behind that mask is one he isn’t going to recognise. And what good would it be seeing it now, if he can’t even land a punch to it like he wants to?

It's really his fault, in the end. He doesn’t prepare himself for the worst, doesn’t account for a situation that would find him staring into a face he’d gazed at, admired, only a few minutes ago. His heart, already slowing down where it sits uselessly in his chest, instantly breaks into a million, jagged pieces.

Oh.

Gi-hun thinks if he had strength to, he’d be angry. He’d fall back into the comfortable arms of fury, hatred, as he cussed out the man before him. Maybe he’d even take a step forward with the intent to harm – raise a fist and surely get shot down in the process. He’d unleash the resentment that had been building up in his chest ever since he’d watched, horrified, as the life bled out of Sang-woo’s eyes that day, rendering his childhood friend as nothing but a hollow corpse, a battered shell of who he once was. Yes, Gi-hun would be so, so angry.

But he’s tired.

Blood loss is making him drowsy and he can barely string together a coherent though in his head, let alone haul himself up to fight a battle he knows he’s already lost. He’s dying. His long-awaited death approaches and he’s far too tired to fight it. Many sleepless nights finally catch up to him all at once and his whole body starts to feel inexplicably heavier, like a dozen weights have been attached to each of his frozen limbs. His eyelids start to spasm as he struggles to keep his eyes from falling shut and he can no longer gather the strength to hold himself up, letting his limp body fall to the side as a faint gasp leaves his lips. The next few minutes pass by in a muffled blur of barely-coherent noises.

“Where did you shoot him?” Young-il’s, no, the Frontman’s voice breaks through his fading consciousness, but whatever reply the man receives does not.

“Fuck!” The curse is followed by two loud gunshots and Gi-hun decides the sound is one he’ll fail to miss. Absentmindedly, he hopes there are no guns wherever he might end up. He thinks he’d like his mother to be there, yes. And Sang-woo. In fact, maybe he’ll get to see everyone he’d fail to save during the last games, and these ones too. It’s a thought that makes tears cloud his fading vision.

In front of him, there’s more indecipherable shouting and Gi-hun can’t help but let out a weak, wet chuckle at the obvious panic he hears. At least in death, he has managed to accidentally throw a wrench in the Frontman’s perfectly orchestrated plans, even if he isn’t quite sure how. He sees knees drop down in front of him before his eyes slip shut for the final time, marking the beginning of his final moments. There’s someone breathing heavily as they lean over his dying body.

The last thing he feels are cold fingers pressed against his neck before he’s finally being pulled under, down into the freezing depths of unconsciousness. At long last, it’s time for him to rest.

Chapter Text

The first thing he registers is music. It’s a familiar tune; the fast and frantic violin scratching at a distinct part of his brain, tugging forward a memory that he recognizes in an instant. Classical music. If this is truly the afterlife, why is he hearing classical music? It’s confusion that goads him into opening his eyes with trepidation, in order to take in his surroundings. As soon as he does this, however, he’s flooded with regret.

It's a ceiling he’s gazed up at for hours, contemplating the decisions he’d made throughout his life that led him there. It’s a bed he’s slept in, not for long, but enough to be intimate with the itchiness of the sheets and the awkward lumps of the mattress. It’s the sight of hundreds of individual, green tracksuits, crowding his vision like ants in a busy nest.

Gi-hun had led a shitty life, but he didn’t think it was so bad as to land him in hell.

For a minute, he’s frozen in place, staring out at the screen that displayed the player count in large, mocking digits. Before he can stop it, he’s bombarded by the memory of watching in horror as that damn number dropped after each game, creeping lower and lower until it finally hit two. He wonders if when Sang-woo died, the number had fallen one last time, displayed to an empty room that had once held four hundred and fifty-six alive, breathing people.

Gi-hun feels sick.

Maybe the past four years of his life had been some elaborate dream, conjured up by the alcohol he’d drowned himself in on a weekly basis, depressed and frustrated at his unfortunate situation. He wouldn’t put it past himself. He’d thought about it before, what it would be like to get lucky and win enough money to fix his fuck-up of a life for good. If he had enough won, he could have properly looked after his mum, made sure that she lived out the rest of her years in comfort instead of a cramped, shabby apartment with her son. And, fuck, he could have been in his daughter’s life more. Taken her out to get steak for her birthday and bought her expensive birthday presents instead of a lighter he’d won in some cheap arcade down the street. A lighter that looked like a gun.

Yeah, he’d thought about having more money than he’d know what to do with. He’d thought about it a lot. But those years didn’t feel like a dream. They can’t have been; he remembers too many distinct details about this place.

So, that means the past week was a dream instead. Yes, that makes far more sense. It was a dream spurred on by his fear of being put back into the games. The dread of facing the horrors he’d escaped from only four years ago all over again. That must be why he’d imagined the games to be different too. He’d subconsciously been terrified that playing again would just be like playing the first time. No advantage to fall back on. Nothing to boost his survival. No way to help the others or even himself make it through alive.

Gi-hun wasn’t stupid, it was a miracle that he’d managed to survive the first time around. Winning a second time? That’s the kind of luck that years of gambling had shown him he didn’t have.

Feeling more certain of himself and his situation, Gi-hun allows himself to look around properly. But, that’s when his stomach drops for the second time in the past minute. If he had eaten anything substantial before he’d gotten in that car, Gi-hun is certain it wouldn’t be in his stomach anymore.

Looking out towards the open area of the room, it’s impossible to miss really. Just like Gi-hun remembers, the floor is split into two regions by a straight line. It’s a line that had inevitably split the players themselves into two separate groups – those who wanted to stay and those who wanted to leave. Back at the start, Gi-hun had thought it was a lenient rule, allowing the players to vote after each game and letting them leave with money if enough decided to vote to do so. Now, he sees how wrong he was. It was just a new, cruel tactic used to divide the players and incite needless conflict. To turn them all against each other. It’s such a frustratingly clever tactic, too.

After all, people – especially those who wind up here – are so predictable, impressionable, desperate. Gi-hun himself had failed once again to consider how greed could change anyone here, if there was enough at stake. He feels stupid now for not realising so sooner. He had watched it happen to the person closest to him after all. He’d witnessed how the possibility of winning all that money had corrupted Sang-woo, turning him into a violent monster that would do whatever it took to win. Gi-hun thinks that maybe it had corrupted him too. After all, he’d chosen to betray the old man during the marbles game, way before he was revealed to be the face behind everything. Gi-hun had chosen to save his own life over his gganbu’s.

Yes, the line had dug out the worst in people. Everyone’s avarice had been dragged to the surface and put on display by the new component of the competition and Gi-hun remembered the bloodshed it had led to vividly, the screams of anguish he’d been forced to listen to as people on his own side had perished in the night.

Those days of his life can’t have been a dream. The proof was right there, bisecting the floor as harshly and plainly as Gi-hun remembered.

So, he must have gone back in time. It sounds ridiculous, downright impossible, and Gi-hun almost chuckles at the incredulity of the idea as he remains frozen in his bed, staring down at the growing huddle of green below. Time travel isn’t real. It’s the kind of thing he’d read about in fictional children’s books and watch in crazy sci-fi movies as a kid.

However, it’s the only reason he can think of as to why he feels like he knows exactly how the next few days are going to play out, down to the most specific of details.

He doesn’t have time to further contemplate the absurdity of his situation, as all of a sudden, the music comes to a stop and a few seconds later, across the room, the large doors slide open. About a dozen guards are revealed and for the first time, Gi-hun notices that they’re gun-less. It makes him laugh sourly in his head.

“I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.” Gi-hun drowns out the discussion that follows, already familiar with the important details that the guard discloses. Instead, he takes the time to think.

If he truly had travelled back in time, then Gi-hun was at a huge advantage. He knew what the first three games would be and thus, he could formulate a plan around them, taking into consideration what challenges he would face and the people he’d be up against. The last three games would be unfamiliar to him, but if Gi-hun planned strategically, it might be possible to end the games before that point, as he almost had in his previous life.

The key was Young-il.

Gi-hun didn’t want to think about him – the betrayal was so fresh after all, a wound still weeping and crying out in pain. When he inspects the injury closely, he acknowledges the lack of anger he finds. Rather, Gi-hun can only find himself capable of mourning the man he once knew. The man that had held him while they had celebrated during Six Legs. The man who’d confined in Gi-hun about his wife with a level of sincerity that seemed nigh impossible to fake. The man who’d stared, who’d searched Gi-hun’s eyes with the wonder of someone who couldn’t bear to look away, even for a moment.

Gi-hun can’t reconcile the gentleness of Young-il with the brutality of the Frontman. And therefore, he won’t.

It might just be denial, but Gi-hun would like to think that some of what they’d shared was real. It had felt real to him, at least. The smiles, the long looks, the care Young-il had constantly exhibited – seemingly effortlessly. Why offer so much, too much even, to a man you’re supposed to despise? Gi-hun assumed Young-il had entered the games for the sole purpose of keeping them on track, keeping Gi-hun in line. And yet, he’d ended up laughing with Gi-hun, joking with him, sharing quiet, vulnerable moments with him that inevitably served no malicious purpose at all. And as for keeping Gi-hun in line, well, Young-il had turned out to be pretty awful at that, too.

Unbidden, he begins to reflect on his death, still at the forefront of his mind. There’s not much to work with – all his senses had been dulled by blood loss and excruciating pain – but he can recall small details as he concentrates on delving into his memory.

“Where did you shoot him?”

“Fuck!”

The last thing he feels are cold fingers pressed against his neck-

Young-il had seemed…almost desperate. Frantic, like Gi-hun dying wasn’t a possibility he’d ever considered. Gi-hun doesn’t want to hope, he knows how easy something so fragile can be torn apart, but he’d like to imagine Young-il had panicked because he didn’t want Gi-hun to die.

The delicate beginnings of a plan start to manifest in Gi-hun’s head.

Before he knows it, it’s time for all the contestants to line up and unknowingly sign their lives away with a pen and paper. Previously, Gi-hun had considered attempting to warn the players, perhaps getting up on one of the high beds and blatantly telling them what the games truly entailed. But, now he knows that would be a fruitless effort. People would just label him deranged, like they’d quickly done in his previous life, and the only thing Gi-hun would gain is long, judgemental stares his way. Besides, even if people did believe him, the games wouldn’t end, and that was the whole reason he’d returned to begin with.

When it’s his turn, Gi-hun grips the frigid pen in his hands tightly as he glowers down at the page. The words printed on it gaze back, mockingly, and it takes every ounce of control he has left to stop himself ripping apart the paper and launching a fist at the guard in front of him. His knuckles turn ghostly with the force he clutches the piece of stationery, but in the end, he simply presses the nib to the sheet and etches out his name. He lowers the pen down slowly afterwards and steps away.

Gi-hun’s first priority in this new life, he decides, is to find Jung-bae.

He’d thought about immediately seeking out Young-il, if that was even his real name, but as soon as the idea enters his head, he pushes it away. That would be too suspicious. The next few days of Gi-hun’s life were critical – any minor slip-up would simultaneously doom himself as well as all the people around him – so he needed a solid plan before he acted rashly. He’d meet Young-il later, like he had before, and then he could begin toying with his prey.

Seeing the Frontman so soon would likely just cause Gi-hun’s mysteriously-absent anger to rear its head, anyway. Anger, rage, had never been something Gi-hun knew how to control.  

As discretely as he can manage, he tries to scour through the crowd of faces, Jung-bae’s wide grin taking centre stage in his mind. Unfortunately, he quickly realises that despite his best efforts, it’s an unattainable feat. Gi-hun can only make out the distinct features of the small group of players closest to him, and even if he could see more, there would still be far too many faces to search.

Nevermind. He’ll just find Jung-bae during Red Light, Green Light.

The next hour proceeds exactly as Gi-hun remembers. All the contestants are gradually filtered through the photo area, one by one, and this time around, the woman’s voice on the PA system grates on Gi-hun’s nerves more so than usual. He doesn’t smile, not like the very first time. Instead, he settles on raising his eyebrows slightly and staring blankly into the camera, head tilted. Assholes.

It’s as he’s climbing the steps like the players around him that he suddenly hears a shout from below. A grin tugs at his lips as the familiarity of the voice instantly washes over him, soothing some of the anxiety tugging at his restless heart. How could he have forgotten? Jung-bae had ambushed him on the stairs last time as well.

“Gi-hun!” His friend rushes up to him as he’d done in the past and plants two, warm hands on each cheek, roughly cradling Gi-hun’s face. Jung-bae’s hands proceed to migrate down his body; they brush along his arms and end up at Gi-hun’s own hands, grasping them firmly. Jung-bae looks up in shock at him as if he can’t believe Gi-hun’s alive. As if he isn’t sure Gi-hun’s real.

“Gi-hun, what are you doing here?!” Jung-bae cries out and Gi-hun doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t remember what he’d said last time, the memory of their first interaction in this place buried deep in some dark corner of his hippocampus. No matter where he digs, he can’t seem to grasp it, the wispy remnants of forgotten words slipping through his nimble fingers. It’s like they’d had this conversation years ago.

“No one’s heard from you for three years! I heard your mum passed away; I had to hear about it from my wife! What kind of friend are you? Were you going to cut me out because I didn’t lend you money?” Jung-bae continues to rant angrily, clearly oblivious to Gi-hun’s internal conflict. On one hand, he desperately wants to pull his friend to the side and confide in him about everything. It would relieve a bit of weight from his shoulders, that’s for sure – the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in all this. That he had someone else by his side that he could rely on.

He knew Jung-bae would believe him too. His friend had always been like that, gullible to a fault and loyal to Gi-hun no matter what. It’s this that nearly tugs the words out of his chest and he almost breaks, almost, as he stares into the familiar face of his closest friend.

But he also knows that he can’t tell Jung-bae.

It wouldn’t change anything if he did. It wouldn’t boost his odds of ending the games and to Gi-hun, that’s what mattered the most, far more than the possibility of emotional comfort. If anything, confiding in Jung-bae might just turn out to be detrimental to his plan. Jung-bae could accidentally let something slip, even something small and seemingly inconsequential, and the Frontman would no doubt catch it. He had always been smarter, more astute, than all of them. Gi-hun trusted Jung-bae enough to be sure that his friend wouldn’t betray him, at least not in the violent way Gi-hun was accustomed to. But Gi-hun also can’t trust him not to make any mistakes, and that’s what ends up cementing his decision.

Unsaid words die, fading into nothing upon his tongue.

“Keep moving! Don’t block the way.” The two of them continue their ascent up the stairs, side by side, and Gi-hun brushes Jung-bae off brusquely when his friend chances another question. The rest of their journey is made in silence, but Gi-hun knows it’s for the best. 

Stepping out into the games area floods Gi-hun with a peculiar kind of déjà vu that makes him feel nauseous all over again. How many times is he going to end up here? He thinks back to four years ago when he’d first played, the nervous excitement that had filled him as he’d regarded the creepy doll on the other side of the field. He recalls, almost as if it had happened yesterday, the elation he’d felt as he’d looked over and seen Sang-woo, the pride of Ssangmun-dong, standing next to him. How fun, he’d thought. Finally getting to play another game with his childhood friend.

Sang-woo was gone now. Gi-hun had watched him go, could only scream helplessly as blood oozed out of his friend’s neck, rain beating at his back.

“What’s that thing?” Jung-bae stretches his arm out and points at the doll across the field, standing there like an omen of death. Many things had haunted Gi-hun’s dreams over the past few years: Sang-woo and Sae-byeok’s deaths, the bloodbath during the night before the third game, coming home to his mum afterwards, motionless on her bedroom floor. And yet, the mechanical eyes that had traced his every move during Red Light, Green Light visited his dreams most frequently.

Maybe it’s because that’s when things had changed. The doll symbolized the start of a tragic series of events that had led to the most important things in Gi-hun’s life being brutally ripped from his bloodied palms – disposed of carelessly like they hadn’t meant everything to him. Those lovely things had been replaced by money, filthy crimson money that haunted him like a vengeful ghost. Gi-hun hated that money. It’s that burning resentment, a loathing that never tired, that had brought him back here, where it all started.  

Gi-hun had survived the first game four years ago – had gone on to win the entire thing – but he thinks he might have lost part of himself on this field, despite it all. 

His happiness, his mind whispers.

The doors slam shut behind them with a deafening clang and the way the sound echoes in his ears strengthens Gi-hun’s resolve. He couldn’t save the people he’d lost back then, but he could still do whatever he could right now to save the people around him.

Gi-hun pushes his way to the front of the crowd and begins shouting to get everyone’s attention, just like he’d done before. He tries to say the same things, after all, they had proven to work. Less people had died during the first game compared to last time around: ninety-one versus a staggering two hundred and fifty-five. Gi-hun’s heart feels heavy when he realises there’s not much more he can do in this life to lower that number further. People will panic, and that’s out of his control.

As he yells instructions, he scans the crowd, looking for another familiar face. He hasn’t seen Young-il yet. Part of him is glad but another part of him – the part that demands answers – isn’t so happy. Wherever the bastard is though, he must be listening, and the thought makes Gi-hun’s heart race where the organ sits idly in his chest.

Watch me. Don’t take your eyes off me.

“Freeze!”

The next few minutes proceed just like they had before. At first, the contestants are calm. They move as a unified block, and Gi-hun is relieved to see plenty of eyes on him, copying his movements and waiting for his instructions. From where he’s turned to face the crowd, he can practically feel Jung-bae’s judgemental stare boring into him and to Gi-hun’s surprise, it almost rips a laugh out of him. It’s all the exact same.

Carefully, Gi-hun spares a brief glance behind him at the timer, the scarlet digits slowly descending closer and closer towards zero. The three numbers pull forward a memory to the front of his mind that he can’t ignore and dread, ominous and dark, begins to collect in his gut. If he’s right, the first contestant will die soon.

He supposes it was inevitable for there to be deviations in this new life eventually, and the first major one reveals itself quite quickly. Even so, Gi-hun isn’t expecting it. When the first person is inevitably eliminated, the woman on the PA system does not announce the same number as Gi-hun remembers. Instead-

“Player two hundred and eighty-three, eliminated.”

As expected, a wave of panic ensues. Dozens of people suddenly rush back towards the doors, spurred on by fear, and Gi-hun winces as the sound of gunshots fills the air. It’s the screams that get him. They’re bloodcurdling and he’s heard so many that they’ve started to ring in his ears louder than bullets, even once their source has gone silent. It doesn’t matter how many times he does this, it doesn’t get easier.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if that will block his ears, and doesn’t open them again until it’s silent once more.

“Let me repeat. You can move forward while the tagger shouts, ‘Green light, red light.’ If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

The rest of the game passes in a blur. At last, people seem to listen to him properly, as they swiftly follow his advice about hiding behind someone bigger than them. The players end up forming neat little lines as they slowly inch closer to the finish and Gi-hun can’t help but wonder how many people could have survived last time, if they’d have done something like this back then. At least a hundred, he reckons.

Crossing the finish line doesn’t really feel like a victory. It definitely had the first time – he and Ali had barely managed it, crashing onto the ground together as the timer hit zero. He’d been flooded with relief as adrenaline continued to soar through him and the words “I did it! I actually did it!” had filled his mind like some kind of mantra. At the time, it had felt like the greatest achievement of his life.

Now, there’s none of that relief, only a deep-rooted weariness.

He turns back around and looks out at the contestants who still haven’t made it, recognising a few from his previous life. Littered in between the feet of the living, there’s a graveyard of bodies. Gi-hun’s stomach drops when he spots the injured man, player four hundred and forty-four, crawling weakly across the ground with the same desperation as he’d done last time, leaving behind a trail of his own blood. Listening to his pleas, Gi-hun feels uselessness rush through him. What good was it, being given this second chance, if he hadn’t used it to save these people? What kind of monster did that make him?

Gi-hun knows that helping the man would be fruitless. He’d tried the first time and almost died for it – the injured man receiving a bullet to his head even though Gi-hun and player one hundred and twenty had managed to haul him across the finish line before the timer reached zero. This time, Gi-hun worries they won’t be so lucky.

So, he watches as the bullet takes the man anyway, finally rendering him frozen on the ground as his life is ripped from him in one fatal pull of a trigger. There’s something so terrifying about that. Being at the mercy of someone else’s humanity.

As the roof slowly closes over the field, blocking out the gentleness of the sun’s rays, Gi-hun can only think about how ready he is to finally put a stop to the games for good.

Chapter Text

“Now, let’s begin the vote.”

There’s still something agonizingly suspenseful about the first vote. Not enough has differed in this timeline, not enough to sway the outcome in his favour at least, so Gi-hun already knows exactly how things are going to turn out. Despite this, there are still moments that have him grasping at his chest from the sheer strain on his weak, old heart.

Notably, player one hundred and ninety-six lives, and she votes for the games to continue without much hesitation. Gi-hun doesn’t think she’ll be much of a problem, not compared to what else he knows he’ll be dealing with over the next few days, but he notes it down as something to remember anyway. He needs to be careful about who he interacts with and who he chooses to avoid.

This time around, Gi-hun decides not to interrupt the voting process.

There’s no point begging people to change their mind. It hadn’t worked before, and he can’t remember what he’d said last time anyway. The only part he recalls in detail is revealing that he’d played the games before and that was something hindsight told him had been an unwise decision. People had quickly turned against him the next day when they’d realised how useless he was and Gi-hun doesn’t have the time nor energy to deal with that in this life. He needs to focus on what really matters.

As the voting nears its end, Gi-hun finds his heart rate picking up over one thing in particular, one man. By the time they reach double-digits, he knows if he turns around and looks towards the back, he’ll see him. Gi-hun knows and yet he’s so afraid.

He’s not scared that Young-il will kill him, as a matter of fact, the idea had never crossed his mind for a second. Young-il hadn’t tried to shoot him at the end of his last life, even after he’d watched Gi-hun plan and orchestrate a takeover of the control room – an attack the Frontman must have known he was the main target of. And yet, despite this, he’d let Gi-hun live. In fact, he’s pretty sure that Young-il might have been trying to save him before Gi-hun had lost consciousness, falling into this new timeline rather than the arms of death.

No, instead he’s terrified that the man he’d seen back then – the one that had smiled and laughed – had never been real in the first place. That Young-il had never really existed, only the cruel, deceiving Frontman who’d masqueraded as him the whole time. Gi-hun knows only time will tell him if this is true but it’s still a thought that incessantly plagues him, especially as he waits to see the other man again for the first time. If Young-il wasn’t real, then Gi-hun’s plan would fail.  

As player four hits the blue button, the feeble organ nestled behind his ribs races and Gi-hun briefly squeezes his eyes shut in an unsuccessful attempt to slow it. The noisy bustle of excitement and fear fills the room, drowning out Young-il’s footsteps, but Gi-hun knows by now that he’s approaching the buttons. Fuck.

When he peels his eyes open again, the shouting around him as died down into tense silence. People around him are frozen still by anticipation, uncertainty, and three hundred and sixty-three pairs of eyes bore into the back of player one, waiting for the man’s decision with bated breath. Gi-hun finally looks at him – well the back of him at least – and all at once, a thousand different emotions rush through him.

Rage. Admiration. Sadness. Fear.

It’s so many conflicting feelings that Gi-hun almost chokes on the startling strength of all them. His knees tremble with the threat of buckling, of sending him to the floor as he shrivels up into a broken mess, and this proceeds to flood him with frustration. He hates Young-il, for making him feel like this. Gi-hun’s hands curl into tight fists by his sides.

Looking down at the two buttons, the bastard feigns deliberation, as if he hasn’t decided yet which one he’s going to pick. In his past life, Gi-hun’s heart had clenched in apprehension at this moment. In this one, however, it beats loudly with bitter amusement. I wonder which one you’ll pick, Young-il?

Cheers erupt from the other side of the line but to Gi-hun it’s all white noise. He can’t tear his eyes away, even for a second. Suddenly, the only thing that exists to him is Young-il: the architect of his nightmares, the begetter of all his anguish, the overseer that watches over this place like a malevolent god. Gi-hun hates him.

Gi-hun, stupidly, doesn’t at the exact same time.

He thinks he’d find satisfaction in killing the Frontman. He’d thought about it a lot, especially during those empty years where the only thing that had kept him company at night were memories of the games. He’d pictured plunging a blade into the monster’s chest, cleaving through the warm tissue and reaching the thrumming organ that lay underneath with ease. Gi-hun would have made it slow, torturous. The Frontman wouldn’t beg for his life, at least Gi-hun doesn’t think so; that instinct was far too human for a merciless beast like him.

This brutal, homicidal fantasy had once occupied Gi-hun’s every waking thought. It had thrived healthily in his head for four whole years and even now, part of him is still tempted, aching for revenge that he’s been long deprived of.

But, seeing Young-il in the flesh again makes Gi-hun imagine a far sweeter form of retribution. He wants to break through that cold exterior, the monster’s skin, and find the true person lying beneath. This, he realises, is something that he craves far more.

Young-il turns around slowly and looks out at the crowd of people who had voted to leave blankly. He’s searching for something, eyes scanning the crowd methodically. Gi-hun doesn’t dare blink.

When their eyes meet, a fierce wave of emotion crashes through Gi-hun, instantly setting his entire body ablaze. His heartbeat pounds in his ears like a drum and his clenched fists shake lightly where they brush against his thighs. Fuck you he thinks. Young-il’s eyes widen imperceptibly, almost like he’d heard the comment, and Gi-hun bites back the manic grin that pulls at his mouth at the thought. Surprise is such a lovely look on the other man’s face.  

Young-il turns away first, ducking his head and moving to stand with the other people who’d voted similarly to him. Gi-hun traces the movement with his eyes before halting his own staring too. Next to him, Jung-bae says something to get his attention and Gi-hun turns to face him.

Later, when he’s sitting and staring down thoughtfully at his measly tin of food, Gi-hun prepares himself. Across the room, he can see Jung-bae still in line waiting for food and from this he knows he has some time left. If things play out the way they did before, his friend will return and they’ll talk briefly before Young-il approaches them. Previously, the man had interrupted their conversation by finding an opening and taking advantage of it. From then on, he had stayed, becoming a pillar of strength in the group that Gi-hun had grown to look up to, revered, with all the passion that remained in his harrowed bones. He’d really liked Young-il. Could once have seen himself spending more time with the man outside of the games, if they’d have made it out together.

How foolish he’d been back then. Blind to the abyss of evil in front of him.

Gi-hun’s not hungry, so he places his food down and stands up. His legs are moving before he can second guess himself and really, it’s inevitable where they end up taking him. This time around, Gi-hun’s watching Young-il as much as Young-il had once watched him.

“Would you like to sit with me?” Young-il is standing – unmoving – in front of a bed frame, tin in hand, as he stares up at the screen that displays the player count. Gi-hun wonders what he could possibly be thinking about, probably something sinister, and he swallows down the urge to actually ask. Patience, Gi-hun.

At the blunt interruption, Young-il finally moves, head gliding down smoothly to face him. He has pretty eyes, Gi-hun realises for the first time. He wants to drive forks through them.

“Me?” Gi-hun almost rolls his eyes at the reply. Playing coy, huh?

“Who else? Those sleazebags over there?” As he speaks, he jerks his head over at player one hundred and his growing entourage of assholes lounging about. Gi-hun can tell they’re the nasty type by how they hold themselves, as if they’re too distinguished to breathe the same air as everyone else. That kind of self-importance reminds Gi-hun of player one hundred and one from the first time he played. Young-il turns around and hums before looking back at him, amused.

“You sure I’m not a sleazebag too, sir?” The response borders on flirty but Gi-hun knows better than that. Young-il thinks he has the upper hand so he’s toying around with that idea and seeing how Gi-hun reacts. Two can play that game.

“I assume you’d be over there if you were, eh? Or are you all by yourself because you think you’re above everyone here?” Gi-hun can’t help but take a jab at where it hurts to see what happens. Being face to face with Young-il again seems to bring out a darker side of himself, a dirty part of his character that he often keeps hidden away. It’s only a light poke – he can’t go in for the kill so soon – but it does the trick nevertheless. Young-il’s amusement visibly dampens and his eyes narrow slightly in suspicion.

“Of course not. I’m just surveying the room.” What, to get one last look at all these people before they all perish in the next few days? Young-il doesn’t need to strategize, not like the rest of them do. It had never come down to it in his last life but Gi-hun was sure that if it did this time, the Frontman’s own guards wouldn’t actually shoot him. He was safe here.

“You think you can win?” Gi-hun asks, curious as to what reply he may receive. Young-il turns his head away and glances around the room, distractedly.

“Hm, maybe. Plenty of people here would do anything to get their hands on all that money.” All of a sudden, the other man shifts his eyes back to Gi-hun and stares. He begins to search his face, running his gaze over each ridge and dip of skin, and it takes all the control Gi-hun has in him to keep his expression as neutral as possible. He won’t be the first one to break in this strange game of theirs.

Young-il must not find what he’s looking for because soon enough, he’s shifting his eyes away with a soft sigh.

“Yes, I’ll sit with you."

Gi-hun leads the man back to where he’d been sitting before, food still laying discarded on the steps. Jung-bae isn’t around, he notices. Bored, he picks his meal back up and fiddles with the tin a little before opening it. The same shit as last time. As he picks up the spoon, he feels Young-il’s gaze digging into the side of his head.

“If you have something to ask, please go ahead.” He doesn’t bother looking up.

“Ah, I was just curious, that’s all. You seemed so familiar with the game we just played. How did you know what to do?” Young-il’s voice is carefully blank and without seeing his face, Gi-hun doesn’t know what kind of expression he might find there.

He must admit, he admires the other man’s commitment to the act. It’s a question Young-il already knows the answer to, but he’s clearly using it as a gateway into further conversation – a strategy to coax out more information without seeming too invasive. Gi-hun decides to answer truthfully seeing as Young-il is the only one listening.

“I’ve played these games already.” Twice. Next to him, Young-il fake gasps and Gi-hun nearly laughs at how exaggerated it sounds to him this time around.

“Really? But that doesn’t make any sense. If you’ve played before, why would you come back to this place? Did you not win enough?” Something about the way that Young-il asks the question makes Gi-hun think that there’s some genuine curiosity there, however small. In lieu of a real answer, Gi-hun chooses to address the second question instead of the first.

“I won plenty. Forty-five point six billion, as a matter of fact.” Young-il inhales sharply.

“Did you spend it all?” No, he hadn’t. He’d barely touched it actually; the billions of won had sat patiently in his bank account for four years while Gi-hun went back to living life like he used to. He doesn’t like thinking about the money. It’s blood money, after all, stained by the loss of the hundreds of lives spilled over it. The only time Gi-hun could bear to spend it was when he was using it to track down the salesman, a necessary step towards putting a stop to the games for good. He doesn’t say any of this to Young-il, though.

“No. It’s not mine.” It’s everything he wants to say packaged up into a few words but it’s enough to get his point across. Young-il looks at him with bafflement, awe, and even though he’s obviously playing it up, Gi-hun can admit it’s still a valid reaction. What kind of person wins that kind of money and then decides they want nothing to do with it? If any one of the other four hundred and fifty-five people had won in his stead, they probably would have spent their winnings. Gi-hun wouldn’t have blamed them; in the end, none of this is their fault. He blames the people behind the games instead, people like Young-il, for taking advantage of their desperation and forcing them to do this – to shed blood in order to fix their lives.

Thinking about his win forcefully tugs forward a plethora of unpleasant memories to the front of Gi-hun’s mind, choking him their sharp edges. It’s Sae-byeok’s face that appears in his head – a cold expression that he’d once furiously loathed. She’d been so young. Gi-hun remembers looking down at her that final night – bleeding out slowly in her bed – and finally feeling something within himself fracture into pieces. Tentatively, they’d made a deal to look after each other’s loved ones but, in actuality, it had just been one last clever play on Sae-byeok’s part. She had known she was going to die and had desperately wanted to ensure the safety of her brother in her final moments.

Gi-hun’s heart stutters at the realisation that she’d passed without even being sure her plan would work. Sang-woo could have very easily beaten him in that last game, after all. He nearly had.

“You don’t have to think of it that way. It’s not like you killed those people, and saving that money won’t bring them back to life.” Young-il had said the same thing last time and Gi-hun hates him for it. He’s right – everything he says is either objective fact or a reasonable argument – and Gi-hun can’t tell what he’s really thinking even when he shifts his head to look over at him. How does Young-il really feel about this? He’d once assumed that the Frontman was just some bloodthirsty freak who enjoyed watching people suffer at his own enjoyment – taking vile pleasure at the sight of others’ pain. After all, why else would someone choose to take the lead role in this kind of mass torture?

However, spending those few days with the man – even if Gi-hun wasn’t aware of it – somehow made him doubt this. Young-il’s eyes back then had often brimmed with some unidentifiable emotion that had felt so important at the time. Gi-hun doesn’t want to label it understanding, it’s not that, but it might have been something close to it. Something adjacent.

Who are you? Why are you here?

“I know that. It’s about what the money represents.” The way Young-il’s eyes light up with excitement tells Gi-hun that he won’t like what the other man is about to say next. He’s much easier to read, now Gi-hun knows what really hides behind that gentle smile. Young-il fires the same question as before and this time, he doesn’t miss his target:

“But why return to win more?” For his bluntness, Gi-hun rewards him with honesty amidst a conversation of lies and deceit.

“There’s no life for me out there anymore, at least not one I’d ever be satisfied with.” He makes sure Young-il’s eyes are locked with his own before he continues.

“I want to end this.” Young-il’s eyes widen a fraction and Gi-hun can’t look away even if he wanted to. Young-il has always had that effect on him.

“End what?” Young-il’s voice lowers until he’s practically whispering, words soft as they grace Gi-hun’s ears like a lover’s caress. At once, he notices how close the other man is sitting to him on the steps, just a dozen or so inches away. He’s so close, in fact, that Gi-hun could reach out and wrap his fingers around Young-il’s supple throat if he wanted to. He does want to, he realises darkly, and the thought scares him.

“These games.” He breathes back, scared of fracturing the moment. For a second, Gi-hun thinks he might actually break. Might just open his mouth and unleash everything he’s really thinking: all of the overwhelming anger, guilt and regret that had been slowly building up over the last four long, agonizing years. Might finally give into his urges and close the distance between them, grasp at the other man’s jacket and push him down, while he spits and screams and shouts until his voice is hoarse and he can’t feel any of this dreadful pain anymore.

It’s all your fault. You did this to me.

It's too much - an inferno of emotions he can’t escape from – and Young-il’s face being right there isn’t making it any easier. The asshole’s looking at him with fucking stars in his eyes as usual, as if Gi-hun’s the first human he’s ever seen in his life and he can’t look away, even for a second. Gi-hun wonders what Young-il sees, when he stares at him like that.

Am I as broken as you’d like me to be yet?

“Gi-hun! There you are!” Luckily, someone else eventually shatters the moment for the both of them. Jung-bae rushes over and scales the steps with surprising dexterity, before coming to a stop in front of Gi-hun, hands on his hips and panting like he’d run a marathon. At the interruption, Young-il snaps his head down towards the man, frowning coldly, and something about the genuineness of the expression dampens some of Gi-hun’s rage. It’s uncharacteristically human – a raw emotion that had somehow managed to slip through the tiny cracks in the other man’s mask – and Gi-hun’s fascinated by it. He wants to break that mask.

Either Jung-bae fails to notice the glare directed his way, or he simply doesn’t care, as he starts complaining noisily.

“I looked all over for you! I even got up on one of those high beds to look and nearly fell off! I was sure you’d been kidnapped, man.” At that, his gaze drifts over and settles on Young-il, still sitting alarmingly close to Gi-hun. Then, his eyes proceed to widen comedically.

“Is this the man that kidnapped you, Gi-hun?!” Gi-hun chuckles at that and pats the empty space beside him with one of his unoccupied hands. Technically, Jung-bae isn’t wrong, but he doesn’t say that.

“No, he isn’t. Just sit down Jung-bae.” Jung-bae does, flopping down onto the seat dramatically with his food. After fumbling for a moment with his tin, he manages to pry it open with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers before letting out a gasp at its contents.

“Oh! Just like my mum used to make! What’s in yours?” Jung-bae begins enthusiastically blabbering on about different foods from his childhood and Gi-hun, thankful for the distraction, turns his attention to him fully. The familiar inflections of his friend’s rambling voice calm him, he discovers. Soon enough, his racing heart begins to slow and the fog in his mind fades, allowing him to think clearly once more.

He barely has five minutes of peace before a leg brushes up insistently against his own, stealing his attention away again.  

These next few days, Gi-hun realises, were going to be a lot harder than he had thought. 

Chapter Text

The rest of the day is remarkably uneventful. With another person around, Young-il seems to pull himself together – voice adopting its usual calming timbre once more and secretly, Gi-hun’s glad for it. The fierce heat in Young-il’s eyes from before had been scalding, tugging forward an unfamiliar emotion in his own gut that Gi-hun didn’t feel like addressing. It felt dangerous, and that told him all he needed to know.  

As for changes in the timeline, Gi-hun can only take note of one that really matters. Dae-ho doesn’t show up, seeing as they aren’t sitting at the same steps as before, and they never end up drawing attention to themselves through the discussion of Gi-hun being a previous winner. He finds himself missing the young man and from this, a surprisingly deep hollowness in his chest makes itself known. Dae-ho had been a bundle of youthful excitement that had distracted him from his own jadedness, and his interactions with Jung-bae had always been amusing, making Gi-hun laugh under his breath despite their unideal circumstance. He’d been a good kid and Gi-hun feels sure he can trust him again, so he promises himself to seek out Dae-ho during Six Legs tomorrow to reconnect with him.

Young-il still breaks up the fight that follows later in the afternoon between some of the younger contestants. So much had taken place since Gi-hun had first seen the altercation that when shouts erupt from the other side of the room, he’s momentarily startled. He still doesn’t know what triggers it, but it’s clearly something personal. As gasps fill the silence between loud kicks and punches, Young-il stands up and slowly approaches, like a lion stalking its prey. What Gi-hun’s really not expecting, however, is his own reaction to what happens next.

For some reason, this time Gi-hun’s face burns as he watches the other man make quick work of sending the two instigators to the ground. It’s so effortless – the way Young-il twists the wrist of one of them with ease and even from far away Gi-hun can picture the sound that it must make perfectly; the crack and snap of delicate bone being broken. Something horrid twists in him as he stares, transfixed, as Young-il crouches down to the man sprawled on the floor and wraps a steady hand around his throat, cutting off the player’s air supply in one quick movement.

Fuck, he thinks.

Then – If I tried to fight him, would he do the same to me?

Instantly, he realises how weird of a thought this is – depraved even – and promptly tries to push it into the depths of his mind where he’s never going to go looking for it again. He’s unsuccessful so he tries to just ignore the rest of the fight instead, hoping it might go away by itself.

It doesn’t.

Later, he lies awake in bed before the lights go out and quietly thinks about the day. He’s not planning to sleep, couldn’t even before in his previous life, but he’s no stranger to long nights anyway.

Things were going well, he decided. Neither Young-il or Jung-bae had noticed anything suspicious about his behaviour yet – nothing that screamed time-traveller hopefully – and even if they had, Gi-hun doubted their first assumption would be a correct one. There had also been no catastrophic deviations to speak of, like Gi-hun getting eliminated in Red Light, Green Light. In fact, he’d like to think he was pretty good at that first game by now, seeing how often he seemed to play it.

This consistency, however, wasn’t necessarily a good thing. If everything just continued on as it had last time, then he would be wasting this second chance completely. Gi-hun wasn’t planning to storm the control room on the third night like before, but that didn’t really matter, as Young-il would end up betraying him at some point down the line anyway. Gi-hun needed to find a way to prevent that betrayal completely and frustratingly, he only had a few days to do it.

Getting closer to Young-il seems like the best course of action, at least to start with. Before, Gi-hun had paid about as much attention to the man as he had everyone else but this time around, he knows he can’t do that. He doesn’t think he wants to, either. Gi-hun feels drawn to Young-il like a moth to flame, like a masochist to the honed edges of a blade, and he’s tired of trying to resist that pull.

As lights out draws closer, Gi-hun gets out of bed.

He descends the stairs with swift efficiency, passing by dozens of players as he does so. Some are already asleep, having somehow found the ability to drift off into slumber despite the day’s events. Others are still awake, speaking in hushed voices with each other as night rapidly nears. Whispers fill the room like the buzz of cicadas and for some reason, the sound is oddly calming.

He’s half-way down the steps when he sees it – a figure in the dim light below him. They’re climbing the stairs at a much more languid pace than Gi-hun’s descending, and when they turn their head upwards, a surge of muted yellow tones rush forward to swathe the finer details of their face. Gi-hun freezes, one foot stretched out, as he stares down at the unmistakable sight of Young-il’s approaching form. The man below him smiles amicably – a tender, soft thing – before he continues his ascent at a brisker pace.

Young-il stops a couple steps down from him and Gi-hun, feeling strangely cornered, is unable to do much more than just watch him. In his typical fashion, Young-il makes sure their eyes are locked before he begins speaking in a low voice.

“Excuse me. Can I talk with you, Gi-hun?” Gi-hun hadn’t forgotten this was coming – in fact, he’d been setting off to seek out the other man himself – but it appears that even in this life, Young-il would keep finding ways to surprise him. The man was supposed to be up here much later into the evening, once most people had returned to their own beds and settled down properly for the night. It’s not really a problem, he reassures himself – it just means they’ll be having this conversation at Gi-hun’s bed again. He wets his lips and nods his head slowly.

“Ah, yes of course. Follow me.” Awkwardly, he jerks around and heads back up the stairs the way he came without waiting for a reply. He gets one anyway in the form of Young-il’s steady footsteps behind him, light but distinct to Gi-hun’s attuned ears, and the gentle sound makes his heart rate pick up. It’s been doing that a lot, he’s noticed.

When he arrives back at his bed, he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, rather than getting in. The covers are still splayed out messily where he’d left them, uncaring of their disarray, and he suddenly has the urge to reach over and fix them.

He’s anxious. It didn’t hit him when he was talking to Young-il a few hours ago but now, in a quieter room with more intimate lighting, it crashes down on him like a heavy weight. Each and every one of these conversations, however brief, mattered. And they mattered a lot.

What if one wrong word was all it took for these delicate beginnings to fall apart? What if these next few days really were his last chance to make things right?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Young-il lowering himself gracefully onto a step like he had once before. The man casually rests a hand on his knee and Gi-hun can’t help but shift his eyes to trace the movement, entranced by the familiarity of such a simple gesture. Not long ago, that very hand – those deft and agile fingers – had held player two hundred and thirty to the ground: crushing their wind pipe with remarkable ease and rendering them completely defenceless in seconds. The memory, and plethora of emotions it evokes, only amplify Gi-hun’s growing nerves. When he finally draws his eyes back up, which is more of a chore than it should be, he has to fight back a flinch at the intensity of Young-il’s gaze.

“Sorry for the intrusion, I know it’s late. If I may ask, where were you leaving to go just now?” It’s strange, having Young-il here on the exact same step as before, but hearing a different string of words leave his mouth. It really does feel like a dream, the first time they’d sat here together. Gi-hun finds he’s jealous of the man he’d been back then – the naïve version of himself who was blissfully oblivious to the keen dagger of betrayal that would be plunged into the exposed stretch of his back in a matter of days. Somehow, despite it all, things at that time had felt so much simpler.

Gi-hun doesn’t lie – he’s never been very good at it so there’s no point bothering:

“I was looking for you.” Young-il’s clearly not expecting a response so honest because his eyes quickly flash with something – shock? – and his lips tug at the corners. He’s pleased, Gi-hun realises. How odd.

“Are you unhappy with the way I voted? I don’t regret it, if that’s what you were going to ask me. I need that money.” You don’t. I don’t either, and yet here we both are anyway.

Gi-hun considers using Young-il’s last statement to sensibly steer the conversation back onto the course it had been on in his previous life. He knows he should – he’s in the viper’s nest and primed for the beast’s bite – but he can’t bring himself to. He doesn’t want to hear the same lie-ridden story about Young-il’s wife again. Young-il might be anticipating his curiosity, might even be trying to coax the question out of his lips, but Gi-hun’s sick of letting the other man dictate his next move. He needs something fresh.

“It’s none of my business how you voted. I understand you have your reasons; I think everyone here does.” He looks out at the vast expanse of the room as he speaks, spotting faint flutters of movement in the distance as people continue to move about. Hanging from the ceiling like a particularly enticing chandelier, the piggy-bank of money continues to emit a steady stream of golden light.

“You’re here to put a stop to these games. Was that your reason?” Gi-hun turns back to face Young-il again, mulling over the question. He’d voted the way he did because he’d never voted differently. To him, pressing one of those buttons had always felt like a decision that reflected his view on the games as a whole. To him, that blue button was a condonation of the continuation of this violence.

“Why do you ask?” Young-il’s body language shifts all of a sudden. He leans forward like an apex predator honing in on its prey, creeping into Gi-hun’s space as if they weren’t too close already. When the other man speaks again, Gi-hun can almost feel the words that leave Young-il’s mouth graze his own lips.

“Getting these people out won’t be enough, you know. There will always be those in debt, so these games will always continue.” These people. It’s so detached – distant – like the Frontman thinks he’s still observing the games from the comfort of his control room. Gi-hun looks at Young-il properly, surveys all the fine cracks in his fractured mask, and knows with a surge of confidence that there is a person underneath.

I will find you. I will rip you apart.

“There doesn’t have to be people who take advantage of them like this. This… this needless bloodshed doesn’t have to go on.” He chokes on each word that he manages to spit out, their heaviness weighing on his tongue like bricks. In front of him, Young-il hangs off every syllable, expression dripping with what Gi-hun can only describe as reverence. The bastard is having fun.

“People stay. Doesn’t that mean they don’t mind?” Gi-hun hates him. He hates all of Young-il’s invasive questions intended solely to rile him up. He hates him for luring him back here to this awful place and pretending to be someone so perfect, so good. He hates him for lying, for not being real. And maybe most of all, he hates him for continuing to stare at him like that, throughout it all.

Sometimes, Young-il looks at him like he’s the sun. Like Gi-hun is a glowing ball of blinding determination and the other man is happy to just stare, relishing in his struggle, as Gi-hun runs out of fuel and collapses in on himself. He wonders if that’s what Young-il is waiting for – the blazing supernova that will come as Gi-hun finally reaches his breaking point. Peculiarly, Young-il doesn’t seem to fear the wave of heat that will accompany that moment, destroying everything in its path. No, he appears to crave it.

Young-il wants to burn and Gi-hun wants to consume him.  

“They don’t have a choice. They’re here because that money-“ He breaks away and fixes his eyes on the piggy-bank pointedly. Young-il doesn’t turn his head to follow his gaze.

“-is the only way for them to escape their problems.” The saffron hues bathing the room are familiar. They’d regularly accompanied him on the dreadful walks home he’d have to make after one too many drinks – swaying back and forth on his feet like a pendulum. They had painted his vision as he’d fought the urge to just keel over right there on the street, drunk off his mind and begging for the spinning to stop. Those nights had been the worst of his life.

Gi-hun turns back to Young-il, bathed in that light. He looks strangely exposed, like the rays from above are reaching downward, prying off his mask and dissecting his careful façade to reveal what lies hidden beneath. The sight makes something fierce stir in Gi-hun’s gut.

“Then how are you going to do it?” Close like this, Gi-hun can make out every meaningless detail of Young-il’s face: the dips and hills of scarless skin, the flickering specks of colour in his irises, the gentle curve of his parted lips. Each detail flows effortlessly into the next and for Gi-hun, it’s infuriating. Young-il is beautiful – the perfect Trojan horse sent to overthrow his plans – and he loathes him for it.

“Do what?” Young-il pauses before he answers, practically whispering. The response is so quiet in fact, that Gi-hun almost doesn’t hear him and he can feel his body lean forward a fraction of an inch, subconsciously chasing the words.

“End this.”

You. You’re how I’m going to end this.

Then, more unsure: We could end this together, you and me.

“There’s a man behind all this – they call him the Frontman. I’m going to find him.” Gi-hun intentionally omits what he’ll do once he does. He already has after all – Young-il is right there and so close that if Gi-hun shifted his leg forward an inch, their feet would touch.

Gi-hun isn’t a fool. He knows there’s a high likelihood that he’s wrong about Young-il – that there really is no good left to salvage. The possibility, and all its implications, scares him. His past life had shown him that brute force couldn’t be used to end the games. He’d tried – had slaughtered so many soldiers attempting to get to that damn control room – but in the end, none of it had worked. This time around, it was obvious he needed to take a different approach.

Gi-hun is aware he’s taking a gamble, building the delicate foundations of his plan upon the assumption that there may be a part of Young-il that could learn to want the same thing he does. He thinks, he hopes, he’d gotten a fleeting look at that side of the man in his past life, before he died.

Caught on this idea, Gi-hun reflects back on the final conversation he’d had with Oh Il-nam. They’d played once last game together that night, at Il-nam’s insistence. As the clock crept closer to midnight, they’d bet on whether or not someone would help the man slowly freezing to death, passed out on the side of the street. Really, it was a test to see if Gi-hun’s faith in humanity could still be upheld even after all he’d been through.

Gi-hun remembers watching, rooted to the spot, as a blanket of snow gradually covered the vulnerable body below. Cold had seeped into the man’s limbs as life dripped out and even from the warmth of that barren room, Gi-hun had felt a chill race up his own spine at the sight. He’d never lost hope, even for a moment.

Il-nam had lost in the end. Someone had chosen to help the drunk man as the clock’s hands struck twelve and the heart monitor a few metres away flat-lined. Gi-hun knew in his very last moments, the bastard saw it. Saw how wrong he’d been.

Gi-hun thinks maybe, just like back then, he could win again. Could be right about unconditional compassion still existing in the world, even somewhere in the man sitting in front of him. He’s confident enough to take the risk.

Young-il doesn’t ask any more questions. He shifts his head away for the first time all night and looks out into the distance instead, contemplative. Hidden beneath everything else, like the undercurrent of a turbulent river, there’s a weariness to him.

As the smouldering tension between them dissipates into the air, the remnants of it are carried away by quiet conversation. They finally exchange names properly, though it feels useless considering all that Gi-hun knows now. He doubts 'Young-il' is the man's real name anyway, but in the end, it's the one he gives so it's the one Gi-hun has to use. Maybe one day, he'll be honoured with the truth. It's the least he deserves, to know the true identity of the man who did this to him. 

Pointless introductions aside, they talk briefly about the upcoming games, then about who they can trust here and then finally, oddly enough, about Gi-hun’s childhood.

The nostalgic memories fall out of his lips before he can try to haul them back – the relaxed atmosphere of the peaceful room making his tongue uncharacteristically loose. He doesn’t end up regretting it, especially not when Young-il seems quite content to listen, humming along where appropriate. He even laughs – a gorgeous, melodic sound – when Gi-hun recounts a particularly amusing anecdote and for a minute afterwards, he can’t get the noise out of his head.

It hurts, Gi-hun realises. It hurts because talking with Young-il like this feels just as good as it had once before. He’s every bit as charismatic and funny as Gi-hun remembers and they work so well together – like Gi-hun was moulded to fit around all of Young-il’s sharp edges – that suddenly he wants to cry. Of all people, why did it have to be Young-il?

Gi-hun misses, with astounding ardour, the bittersweet bliss of ignorance, torn forcefully away from him like a toy from a bawling child. Selfishly, he wants it back.

Eventually, their conversation must come to an end. When Gi-hun chooses to look out into the room an undeterminable period of time later, he can no longer see green flutters of movement in his vision, and his heart feels oddly heavy at the observation. They don’t have much time left.

“They’ll turn the lights out soon. You should return to your bed.” Young-il smile drops slightly and he hesitantly shifts his head to follow Gi-hun’s gaze. He looks a little confused, blinking into the distance as if he doesn’t understand what Gi-hun means, and it’s such a ridiculous notion that Gi-hun almost lets out an audible chuckle. Yes, you’re a player now, Young-il.

At last, the man’s eyes sharpen with recognition and he turns back to look at Gi-hun earnestly.

“Oh. Well, make sure to get some rest tonight, Gi-hun. We’re all going to need it to face tomorrow’s game.” Gi-hun nods in agreement and with that, Young-il gives him one last gentle smile before standing up. He moves to go and for some inexplicable reason, the sight does something awful to Gi-hun. He’s reaching out before he can stop himself, leaning across the gap and grasping the hand at the other man’s side, as a wave of emotion – an inordinately-sized mix of conflicting feelings – sweeps through him.

Young-il’s hand is soft in his own, warm and real.

The other man stares down at him, feet frozen and lips parted. It’s raw shock and Gi-hun wants to paint the very picture of it; each tantalising line of his face that’s twisted in a way he’s never seen before. A storm of words gets caught in his throat all of a sudden, choking him with their sheer abundance. There’s so much he could say – so much he needs to say – but he’s aware that it’s not the right time for it. Not yet.

“Sleep well, Young-il.” The other man gives him a long, heavy look then drags his gaze down to their conjoined hands. When he meets Gi-hun’s eye again, he appears torn, like there’s something he’s deliberating.

“I will.” Young-il whispers back. He hesitates for one more torturous moment, and then pulls away. Gi-hun doesn’t stop him this time, just watches as the man’s back descends the stairs again and eventually disappears from view. With Young-il gone, he finally climbs into bed and lays down.

Six Legs tomorrow. Funnily enough, it’s not the game itself that Gi-hun is worried about. He isn’t sure when it happened but he’d stopped being scared of death a long time ago. Maybe, it was when it had finished taking everyone he loved from him.

That night, despite Young-il’s words, he does not sleep.

Chapter Text

Stepping out into the large room for the second game doesn’t feel nearly as daunting as it had the first time.

In his previous life, Gi-hun’s stomach had plummeted straight out of his body when he’d looked around and realised they weren’t playing Dalgona. He hadn’t been entirely sure all the games would be the same – he could never be too certain of anything in this place – but part of him had still maintained hope nevertheless. It had stung when, in an instant, that hope was crushed. It had stung even more when, right after, most of the people around him started to abandon any faith they had in him.

This time, there’s none of that soul-crushing disappointment. Gi-hun feels calm, calmer than he’s ever felt before one of these games.

“Welcome to your second game. This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes.”

The woman’s voice on the PA system begins to repeat herself, but Gi-hun already understands the rules.

Teammates. It’s in his best interest to play with the same people as last time seeing as they’d gotten through alive, so he turns around to Jung-bae and Young-il.

“Let’s form a team, okay? I have two more people in mind already.” They both nod with varying degrees of enthusiasm, seeming content to follow his lead. Gi-hun quickly averts his attention back to the massive crowd of people in front of them and begins to sort through the sea of faces.

Looking for Dae-ho and Jun-hee is not an easy task, and it doesn’t take long for Gi-hun to realise that he’s not going to have much luck finding them without moving around himself. Not many players had been eliminated in the first game, at least in comparison to the number of those who’d made it through, so the room is densely packed with hundreds of people. To add to his plight, they move about like sediment being thrown about by a turbulent current – never staying still long enough for him to properly discern any notable features. He sighs, frustrated.

“But wait, Gi-hun, how can you be sure? We don’t know what the next game is yet.” Jung-bae’s previous compliance morphs into confusion as he comes to stand by Gi-hun’s side, waiting for an explanation. Gi-hun doesn’t offer him one. If they want to get Dae-ho on their team again, they can’t afford to waste time by standing around. Dae-ho was a young, athletic-looking man and when forming teams in these games, that’s what most people were interested in. Gi-hun wouldn’t be surprised if they were already too late.

“He knows what he’s doing, let’s not interrupt.” Gi-hun has to wrestle off the urge to flinch at the sound of Young-il’s voice in his ear, abnormally loud. He’s standing far too close, looming over Gi-hun’s shoulder like a shadow, and the sheer audacity of it pisses him off in a way he can’t quite describe. Every time Young-il exhales, the man’s warm breath grazes the delicate shell of his ear. Every time Gi-hun leans to the left to get a better look at the crowd, his shoulder brushes against the firm wall of Young-il’s chest.

It’s fucking infuriating.

At once, Gi-hun decides he needs to get away. Needs to extract himself from Young-il before he decides to just turn around and plant a fist into the asshole’s jaw to get him to back off instead. It’s unfair how tempting the idea is – the thought of letting this sudden surge of anger take control of him. The very tangible – easy – possibility of letting it push him forward to finally seize the first succulent bite of revenge he’s been craving for years. He can’t, knows he shouldn’t, but his body tenses involuntarily anyway.

“I’ll be back.” He rips himself away and steps out into the bustling throng of movement ahead without looking back. Somehow, the new wave of sensations that hits him is less suffocating than the ones he leaves behind.

He finds Jun-hee quicker than he thought he would.

When he spots her, she’s walking away from another contestant, a furious expression twisting the softness of her youthful face. The sight – the blatant, undisguised stress – makes worry stir in Gi-hun’s gut. A look behind the woman confirms his suspicions: player three hundred and thirty-three stands behind her like a kicked puppy, staring helplessly after her. There had always been some unaddressed tension between the two and Gi-hun had never liked it, especially considering Jun-hee’s condition.

Gi-hun moves forward without hesitating.

“Excuse me miss, would you like to join my team? There’s already three of us; we only need two more people.” As he speaks, he lifts two fingers up. In front of him, Jun-hee’s eyes lose their fury in an instant, the embittered emotion replaced by shock as they widen up at him. She’s surprised. Gi-hun thinks it’s unfair, how everyone’s immediate instinct during times like these is always to gravitate to the strongest, most agile people in the room. There’s absolutely no consideration for those less capable, those like Jun-hee, who are struggling the most in this place.

Gi-hun can’t imagine how that must feel: to know how vulnerable you are and be forced to watch as everyone abandons you because they think you’ll drag them down. He thinks it’s a feeling no person should ever have to experience.

It warms his feeble heart when the shock in Jun-hee’s eyes eventually melts into relief as she nods her head in acceptance. Even if things still go to shit, Gi-hun’s is glad he was able to offer her this. It’s not enough, but it’s something.

Seeing as it’s where he left them, Gi-hun returns to the entrance of the room with Jun-hee in the hopes he’ll find Jung-bae and Young-il waiting for him there. As they weave through the crowd together, he spares a cursory glance at one of the clocks. Half their time is gone already.

Luckily, Jung-bae and Young-il are still standing off to the side where he left them a few minutes prior.

Standing next to the latter, Jung-bae is ardently trying to engage the other man in conversation. He’s not having much luck, despite his best efforts. Young-il offers the occasional glance in Jung-bae’s direction but for the most part, he appears to be far more interested in observing the crowd of people in front of them. With a face as blank as an empty canvas, the man’s gaze flits from person to person, registering each of them, but never lingering for more than a second. Gi-hun thinks it’s not unlike the way a butcher may size up his cattle – a certain arrogance to him knowing his sheep can’t fight back.

Young-il’s gaze lands on Gi-hun like a dart hitting its target.

When it does, the bastard has the nerve to smile like he’s won; like they’re playing a game of their own that Gi-hun just doesn’t get. He doesn’t understand the rules, every move he makes feels like a blunder that might cost him the entire game and all the while, Young-il takes delight in watching him suffer. There’s obviously something Gi-hun’s missing, a final piece to the puzzle that is the other man’s intentions, and he’s more resolute than ever to find it.

Powered by resolve, Gi-hun approaches the two men in a few brisk strides as Jun-hee calmly trails after him. He stops a metre in front of them and spares any preamble in favour of getting to the point as quickly as possible:

“This woman will be joining us. Do either of you have a problem with this?” Gi-hun doesn’t really care if they do – it’s not something he’s willing to budge on. If Jun-hee doesn’t play with them, she’ll likely end up joining a team who are struggling to scrape together enough players. Teams like that – ones that lack the necessary glue to stick them together – don’t usually make it, especially in a game like Six Legs.

Young-il nods easily and Gi-hun almost lets out a sigh of relief. He doesn’t, because out of the corner of his eye he sees Jung-bae frown and begin to open his mouth to no doubt contribute something meaningless. The timer’s transitory digits flash in Gi-hun’s head suddenly and with this, his restlessness mounts.

“You can say what you want to me when I get back Jung-bae. Young-il-” He takes a step closer to Young-il, invading the other man’s personal space. When Gi-hun speaks again, he makes sure his voice is low enough to be only audible to the man in front of him.

“Take care of her.” Young-il’s eyes fall on Jun-hee before darting back to meet Gi-hun’s own again. There’s something intense – dissecting – to his expression that hadn’t been there before.

In his past life, Young-il had always had a bit of a soft spot for Jun-hee. Gi-hun remembers when after the second vote, Young-il had offered the woman the rest of his milk at meal time - a simple act of kindness that had cemented Gi-hun’s trust in the other man at the time. Even now, knowing that trust had been misplaced, Gi-hun is still sure that Young-il had cared. At the very least, he’d cared enough to want to help Jun-hee make it out of here.

Young-il’s lips part like he may respond but Gi-hun doesn’t have the time to stick around and get distracted. Feeling pleased that Jun-hee is in the right hands, he dives back into the horde of people again to continue his search. Behind him, Jung-bae’s voice rises above the din of the room.

“Gi-hun, wait! Where are you going?!”

With only a few minutes left on the clock, most people have either fully formed their teams, or are getting close to it. To his annoyance, it doesn’t seem to make finding Dae-ho any easier. Green tracksuits swarm his vision, boxing him in wherever he turns, and as the time creeps lower, his panic spikes. Where are you?  

Gi-hun is considering just cutting his losses when he finally sees him.

The first thing he notices is that Dae-ho isn’t alone. He’s standing with four other male players and the sight immediately makes Gi-hun’s heart sink heavily, dragging his feet to a stop. He knows it was inevitable. He knows he never really stood a chance and yet, it’s no less disheartening.

He’s about to turn around and utilise the rest of his time to look for someone else when the conversation taking place in front of him reaches his ears.

“Come on, why not? Nothing could be stronger than a team of all men!” The shortest of the men leans over and pats Dae-ho on the shoulder with a firm hand, laughing forcefully. Dae-ho’s gaze shifts to the side uncomfortably as he takes a step backwards.

“I’m not sure-“ Another man, player four hundred and forty-two, doesn’t like that. He takes a step forward and gets right up into Dae-ho’s face before he speaks again, voice menacingly low.

“You think you’ll stand a chance with a group full of old fucks and women? Hah! Do you even want to make it through this round?” It’s laughably ironic. In Gi-hun’s previous life, the first team to complete the pentathlon had been a group with four women. He can still vividly remember the cheers – eruptive and rambunctious – that had sounded through the room as the team stumbled across the finish line. The rush of excitement back then had been contagious, spreading around the room like fire and kindling a blaze of confidence in everyone else’s veins as they all waited for their own turns.

That first win had incited hope in the rest of them – had proven that the game wasn’t impossible. It had given them all a reason to try.

None of these men know this. Right now, they’re being driven by their own weak interpretation of what makes a team strong.

“Of course I want to make it through-“ Dae-ho’s unease devolves into distress as he falls back a few more steps. Red-hot anger flashes in the eyes of the man in front of him and it thaws Gi-hun’s frozen feet, thrusting him into action.

“He doesn’t want to join your team. You should back off.” The man turns to him, eyebrows rising up in disdain at the interruption. He has such a punchable face, Gi-hun realises – features just begging to be deformed by the harsh knuckles of a fist. When the man addresses him, his voice drips with callousness.

“This is none of your business, old man. Stay out of it.” Anger – viscid and volatile – boils up in Gi-hun’s chest at the player’s tone. The scalding rage that has simmered in him for years makes itself known and all of a sudden, he can’t smother it – heat rising up and burning the soft lining of his throat.

Gi-hun had intervened to de-escalate the situation, to get Dae-ho away from these unsavoury characters but suddenly the idea feels so far away, like it’d slipped away from him during the short walk over here.

When Gi-hun speaks again, he leans forward, words dripping with venom.

“I said, you should fucking back off-“ He’s cut off abruptly when the other man jolts towards him, plants two rough hands on his shoulders and pushes. Gi-hun stumbles backwards, caught off guard by the attack. If player four hundred and forty-two had been angry before, now he’s positively livid.

The man’s stance shifts – tenses imperceptibly – and the ugly lines of his face twist as he pulls his arm back. Gi-hun’s been in his fair share of bar fights, so he knows an impending right hook when he sees one. Anticipating the assault, he ducks swiftly to the side as the player lunges and cuts through air rather than his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see people in the vicinity step away warily.

“Oh, you’re asking for it now-“ The man snarls as he rushes back in with alarming swiftness. Gi-hun attempts to dodge the next jab but this time, he’s not quick enough. The fist collides with his face – an awful crunch that echoes in his ears – and he falls back much further this time, crashing to the ground with a shout. The pain in his jaw blossoms in an instant as his tongue registers the metallic taste of blood coating his mouth, sticky and warm. Shit.

They’ve garnered an audience now, Gi-hun notices. Some people watch on with interest, others with worry and Gi-hun should get up, needs to, but a bout of dizziness washes over him that impedes his ability to think clearly. Above him, the player pushes the sleeves of his jacket up and seeing this, Gi-hun’s hands scramble to find purchase on the floor to futilely drag himself to his feet. God, he can’t just die here.

The man moves and Gi-hun prepares himself for whatever may happen next. He prepares himself for the sting of more punches or even the chill of hands wrapping around his neck, but neither come. Instead, a fist enters his field of vision and strikes player four hundred and forty-two in the face.

The man lurches back from the sheer force of the hit, body twisting awkwardly. He reaches a shaking hand up to cradle his cheek, stunned, but his attacker – brutal in their pursuit – doesn’t allow him a moment to recover. The next punch they deliver knocks the man over like paper and he hurtles to the ground with a choked gasp, sprawling out across the floor. A pair of knees slowly lower to bracket his hips, and two sets of lithe, agile, familiar fingers encase the exposed stretch of his throat with fluidity. The man’s eyes widen and he pulls at the hands to get them to loosen their hold, but it’s in vain.

A few metres away, Gi-hun sits frozen. The crowd around him hums with the buzz of conversation – of gasps and shouts and goads – but he can barely discern the voices over the deafening sound of his own beating heart. The organ thrums with fervour, races like it may rip right out of his chest, and blood rushes to every corner of his body that makes him feel so hot all of a sudden. In his oesophagus, bile rises up like magma.  

The attacker turns his head to the side, and that heat erupts.

As they always seem to, Young-il’s eyes find his in an instant, zeroing in with practised ease. He always feels exposed when Young-il looks at him like that – as though every part of him, each offhand thought and shameless desire, is bared for the other’s eager perusal. It’s the involuntary vulnerability he loathes the most, the rapacious robbery of parts of himself he though no one would ever see, least of all the man in front of him.

Young-il takes and takes and Gi-hun, wrung dry, doesn’t know how much he has left to have stolen from him. When will you finally look away for good, Young-il?

Maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

Young-il stares and Gi-hun wants to break, pull away, flee – run, run, run – but he can’t. He can’t look away; can’t rip his eyes from the sight in front of him, alluring in the most twisted of ways. It’s sick, he’s sick and god, it feels like dying. Like being dragged down to hell and feeling flames brush against your fragile flesh, a fleeting flash of temptation, before the fire reaches up and consumes you entirely.

Gi-hun has never felt more alive.

In the span of a few seconds, Young-il’s pupils widen – an inky void that hungrily devours the iris. His lips part a fraction and then, he squeezes.

The player underneath him instantly becomes erratic, thrashing around like a fish tugged out of water. His legs kick up to try and free himself, harsh movements that exude panic, but there’s no semblance of tactic to it. He flails, and the body above him doesn’t budge an inch. The man tries to claw at the hands with more insistence, digging his nails into the skin hard enough to draw forth blood and in response, Young-il tightens his grasp. The shouting around them intensifies.

All the while, Young-il doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t even blink. His face remains as impassive as ever – a frozen lake on a winter’s day – and Gi-hun hates it. Hates him. Hates the feeling that there’s clearly something he’s unable to see, that he knows is right in front of him.

Young-il holds his gaze like he’s trying to tell him something. It’s an attempt at communication, connection – sentences hidden in the gasps of a dying man and the unrelenting grip of his killer. It’s a million words all at once and for some reason, Gi-hun can’t hear any of them. He wants to hear them. He needs to.

A minute drags by and no one steps forward to intervene. The player’s desperate thrashing slows as his hypoxia worsens and for a moment, Gi-hun thinks he might actually slip into unconsciousness. That the Frontman will kill this man and won’t tear his eyes away from Gi-hun for a second whilst doing so. A new wave of smouldering heat courses through him, a burn as sweet as the tenderness of a kiss.

Then, Young-il lets go.

He pulls back smoothly, hands slipping away from the man’s neck in one graceful movement. Immediately, the player starts convulsing as he gulps in handfuls of air but Young-il pays him no mind, just sits back on his heels as the man chokes loudly underneath him. He pauses for another torturously long moment, something brewing under the glacial frigidness of his expression. Finally, Young-il shifts, turning his head to look down at the man.

Gi-hun shakily exhales.

“Gi-hun!” Behind him, he hears a familiar voice cut through the buzz around them. He twists around to see Jung-bae pushing through the crowd, uncharacteristically panicked, as he calls to get his attention. The sight shakes Gi-hun out of his stupor and he clears his throat in preparation to speak as his friend draws closer.

“Jung-bae.” The simple word takes a lot of effort to push out and when he does, it comes out sounding unusually hoarse. He feels like he’s swallowed a dozen pointed rocks, their rough edges scratching at the lining of his throat and blocking the things he wants to say – the plethora of emotions building up in his chest. Jung-bae doesn’t take notice of this particular plight, jumping forward to fuss over Gi-hun’s physical state instead.

“Gi-hun, your face! That must hurt-“ Without any warning, he brazenly reaches out to touch the side of Gi-hun’s face. Pain instantly erupts in his jaw – a horrible, aching kind of tightness – and he bats Jung-bae’s hand away instinctively as he moves to hover a palm over the wound. The nauseatingly sharp taste of blood makes itself known once more – a bitterness that coats his mouth and prompts him to gag.

At once, a wave of discomfort hits him. It’s pain from the punch, ripping across his face like it had just happened. It’s pain from the fall that followed, a bruising that stemmed from an awkward collision with the firmness of the ground. It’s pain from the conflicting swarm of emotions that had assaulted his mind as he’d watched Young-il suffocate a man to near death in front of him.

It’s too much – too sudden and too strong. He leans over, arms shooting out to hold himself up, and begins heaving.

“Oh my god! Gi-hun-“ The pitch of Jung-bae’s voice rises in concern but Gi-hun can’t hear him, focus impeded by the vomit climbing up his throat. In front of him there’s a blur of movement, a shift of feet moving closer, before he feels the warmth of a hand grasping his shoulder. Young-il’s touch is firm – steadying – and far too gentle for a man that almost killed someone a minute ago. Gi-hun flinches, a feeble attempt at escaping the contact.

“Easy. That will make it worse.” Young-il speaks right into his ear, close enough that his lips almost brush against the skin there. Gi-hun releases a heavy breath before turning his head to the side to face him. 

There’s something so different about seeing Young-il up close like this. It’s nothing like watching him from afar – the distance making it impossible to detect the slight changes in his demeanour that say so much. Even through his sickly haze, Gi-hun can finally make out things he hasn’t considered before – truths that seem to clear now that their subject sits a few inches away.

Pain morphs into the beginnings of realisation.

Young-il had almost killed a man. Had almost ripped the life from a player with his bare hands for him.

Would you have gone all the way, if I asked you to?

Gi-hun thinks the answer to that question could be yes. It makes him wonder what else Young-il might do for him, if not now, then maybe with time. Perhaps, there’s a part of Young-il, waiting to be cultivated, that would burn this place to the ground if Gi-hun told him to. It sounds too good to be true.

Gi-hun leans back up as the nausea leaves him, a forgotten feeling overshadowed by the weight of his thoughts. Young-il’s hand doesn’t leave his shoulder though, in fact, it slides down to grip his forearm and stays there, unwavering. Gi-hun darts his eyes down at the fingers bunched into his jacket before daring a glance back up at Young-il’s face. The man’s expression is as blank as ever but the words written in his movement speak volumes. They attest to a certain kind of longing, hidden beneath layers of cool difference and self-imposed conditioning.

Longing, but of what nature? The longing to bite down upon the meat of your enemy’s flesh? Or, the longing to worship it?

With Young-il, Gi-hun thinks it could be both.   

“Will you be alright to play the next game, Gi-hun?” A longing of any kind is pliable. It can be twisted and moulded to fit in line with his own ambitions.

“I don’t have much of a choice.” At last, Gi-hun gathers the strength to rise to his feet. Young-il’s hand on his arm clenches for a brief moment and then lets go, falling to hang by his thigh instead. He takes a step backwards, out of Gi-hun’s personal space, but he doesn’t go far.

Gi-hun is finally beginning to understand the game they’re playing.

Young-il turns to look up at the clock on the far side of the room, three red zeroes signalling that their ten minutes is over. Slowly, like approaching a predator that might decide to devour you, Gi-hun reaches out a hand. The tips of his fingers graze against the soft fabric of Young-il’s jacket, a taunting kind of touch, and the first of many.

“Young-il.” Young-il darts his head down to observe the point of contact, but he’s not fast enough. Gi-hun draws back – a nimble action that the other man traces with his eyes – before parting his lips to speak. The single word that rolls off his tongue tastes so saccharine – a poison disguised by sweetness.

“Thankyou.” Gi-hun smiles and this time, it feels like he’s won.

Chapter Text

“The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. Each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the mini games.”

The woman begins to list out the mini games and as she does so, a sea of heads turn to catch a glance at the tables interspersed around the tracks. At each one, there’s a guard sitting stock-still in a chair with a different game in front of them. There’s five per track – five mini games.

As the voice on the PA system continues to explain the rules, Gi-hun gazes around him at the other teams. They’re all arranged in neat little rows like he remembers, filling up the inside of both of the circular tracks. When he looks closer, he can recognise some of the groups from his previous life, and the realisation hits him more viciously than he expects it to. He stares at the different faces – an array of unique features that define so many people – and feels his heart sink.

It’s an awful kind of feeling, knowing when someone is going to die. Gi-hun feels partly to blame for their fates, despite knowing deep down that there’s nothing he can do for them. There’s simply not enough time.

To stop his thoughts taking a dark turn, Gi-hun focuses on trying to find what he’s looking for amongst the crowd of sitting forms. Finally, he sees it. Over in the other ring, situated towards the back, Gi-hun can just about make out the side-profile of player four hundred and forty-two.  

The man looks, well, bad to put it simply.

There’s a nasty bruise developing on the side of his face, a painful blotch that has turned his skin there a blueish shade of purple. His left eye is swollen where one of Young-il’s punches had landed – a very strong punch – and it’s clearly not been iced with the how severe the puffiness has become. They’re obvious injuries, but not what Gi-hun finds himself drawn to. Rather, he can’t look away from the sickly pale of the man’s skin, a pallidness that could be attributed to a pair of deadly hands that had almost squeezed the life from him mere minutes ago.

Serves him right. Gi-hun harbours no pity for the man; if Young-il hadn’t intervened, he may have ended up looking the same.

At the thought of the man, Gi-hun shifts his head back to look at him. He’s sitting, back straight, with his wrists resting lightly on his thighs. He hadn’t gone unscathed in the fight, though not to the same degree as the player he’d choked. Gi-hun can’t help but look down and wince at Young-il’s hands anyway, scratched raw by blunt fingernails.

The marks paint the surface of the skin – soft hands that Gi-hun had held in his own just the night before. The shallow lacerations are surrounded by dried blood that covers the entire backs of his hands, staining them a vibrant red colour that Gi-hun can’t tear his eyes away from, no matter how hard he tries. Unbidden, the sight drags forth the awful memory of his own hands coated in Sae-byeok’s blood that night. The terrible smell – poignantly metallic – had lingered in the lines of his palms for months afterwards, a constant reminder of the towering guilt that sat upon his shoulders. A reminder that he had been incapable of saving her.

Sometimes, when he’s really out of it, he thinks he can still see the stains. A thousand oceans of water couldn’t rid him of them, no matter how hard he may be able to scrub.

He knows Young-il’s scratches must burn still – a persistent sting at the very least – but the man’s blank expression divulges none of this pain.

Without giving it much thought, he extends one of his hands out to breach the small gap between them. He takes hold of Young-il’s fingers, avoiding the worst of the damage, and squeezes them gently to get the other man’s attention.

“Does it hurt?” Young-il turns his head, evidently thrown off by the sudden physical contact. Gi-hun hadn’t initiated much in his last life, if any at all. Young-il had always been so close, right there when Gi-hun needed him, but they had never been close like this. Back then, it was shoes touching when they’d sit on the steps and arms brushing as they’d walked past each other. Back then, it was safe.

Young-il’s shock morphs into something pleased. He curls his fingers to wrap around Gi-hun’s thumb and leans closer so their shoulders bump as he speaks.

“Ah, not really. It looks worse than it feels.” Gi-hun doesn’t believe him but he can’t bring himself to care enough to pry further. He breaks eye contact with Young-il to look down the line at Jung-bae, who seems overly enthusiastic given their current circumstance.

“It’s good that we got a woman.“ Jung-bae declares with pride as he pumps a fist. He whips around to talk to Jun-hee, who’s nervously staring into her lap at the end of the row.

“You can play Gong-gi, right?” The poor woman looks up and shakes her head slowly, horrified. In an instant, Jung-bae’s excitement evaporates and an amusing display of confusion takes its place. He turns his head back around and asks, incredulous:

“Don’t girls play Gong-gi anymore?”

Part of Gi-hun, bored of hearing this particular discussion again, is tempted to just step in and assign everyone the same mini game as last time. They’d managed to win back then, albeit by the skin of their teeth, and there’s no guarantee they will again if they switch up who plays what. It seems logical – reasonably impulsive – and it’s a decision Gi-hun almost makes without any hesitation. However, he does hesitate and from that hesitation, deliberation manifests.

Young-il had been shit at Spinning Top. He had wasted so much of their time and Gi-hun still couldn’t tell if it had been some sort of cunning ploy or just blatant incompetence born from an oversight to an otherwise meticulous plan. He finds it funny to consider it may be the latter – that Young-il had been so close to blowing his cover because he sucked so bad at a kid’s game. If that was true, then the frustration Gi-hun had seen during their turn – the delightfully raw panic – had been real.

It would be enjoyable to taste that panic again, or at least the concept of it, but Gi-hun doesn’t want it to cost the game like it had in his past life. If Young-il had failed Spinning Top one more time, they wouldn’t have crossed the finish line.

Swapping our games could doom us, but then again, so could playing the same ones as before.

“Actually, I can play Gong-gi.” Dae-ho stutters out the admission, mortified, like he’s confessing some kind of long-hidden secret. Jung-bae instantly leans back in surprise and scoffs.

“You can? How come?” Gi-hun almost rolls his eyes. He’d expected Jung-bae to be more excited, considering there’s no one else in their group who can play the game. As Jung-bae mentioned, it was a game for girls, so Gi-hun had rarely seen anyone play it in his childhood, let alone given it a go himself. The rules seem a little difficult to pick up at such short notice, especially without any practice. To make matters worse, they weren’t playing for fun – they were playing to survive. Gi-hun thinks the ever-looming threat of a bullet to the skull could make even the best of player’s hands shake.

He realises how lucky they are that Dae-ho had asked to join their team after the fight. Without him, they might have been done for.

“I grew up with four older sisters. I used to play it with them from time to time.” At this, Jung-bae lifts up an arm and wraps it roughly around Dae-ho’s shoulder, pulling the man closer. Caught off guard, Dae-ho jolts in surprise and his eyebrows shoot up.

“That’s perfect. Our team will smash this game for sure!” Jung-bae declares, voice choked with respect. Looking down the line, Gi-hun sees Jun-hee eyeing the exchange, a distinct nervousness to her demeanour. Gi-hun doesn’t want the woman to feel like she’s dragging the team down and he already knows she’s probably the best out of all of them at Ddakji, so he decides to direct the conversation like he had before.

“What do you think you’ll be good at?” Gi-hun almost calls Jun-hee by her name to get her attention but manages to stop himself just in time. There’s no way he’d be able to dig himself out of that hole.

Jun-hee seems to understand he’s addressing her anyway, as she darts her eyes over to him. She considers his words for a moment, quietly contemplative. Then, her face lights up with realisation, a memory clearly pulled to the front of her mind.

“Ddakji, I think. At the subway station, I won more times than the guy.” Gi-hun feels just as impressed hearing this the second time as he had the first. When he’d played against the recruiter, he’d lost at least a dozen times before he’d finally managed to flip over the asshole’s ddakji. He can still remember how sore his face had been afterwards, skin on fire from the sheer number of slaps he’d endured to keep playing. He’d give it to the bastard; he sure knew how to deliver a slap – each one had been just as painful as the last.

Jung-bae nods, obviously pleased Jun-hee is confident in her abilities.

“Okay then. Miss two hundred and twenty-two, you can play Ddakji.” He turns his attention back to the rest of the group and points to himself.

“I’ll play Flying Stone. I was a pitcher for my baseball team, I’m good at throwing.” Gi-hun thinks he remembers Jung-bae telling him something about that once. They were most likely drunk back then, tongues loose and rejoicing over the struggles that plagued each of their lives. They were probably, in a fucked-up way Gi-hun is only aware of now, almost happy.

At the distant memory, his heart feels inexplicably heavier. Gi-hun misses those conversations, the times when things were less complicated. He’s beginning to realise he’ll never get those things back. He’d lost them when he’d lost himself, clutching at Sang-woo’s dead corpse in the rain that day. Sometimes, it feels like this is all he has left – an immense abundance of anguish, self-destructive determination and boundless pain.

Sometimes, it feels like the only thing he has left is these games.

If he can manage to make it out this time, Gi-hun would like to change that. He’d like to rip out the dreadful memories of this place from him like a weed and replace them with something nice. Plant the delicate seeds of a new life that he can slowly nurture into something worth living. It’s just an unrealistic fantasy, but the idea comforts him nevertheless.

Focusing back on the present, Gi-hun can’t help but take notice of the deafening silence that has settled over the group out of nowhere. He turns to look at Jung-bae – confused and concerned – and finds the man already facing his way, bewildered. Dread collects in his gut like clouds forewarning an impending storm and with caution, he slowly follows his friend’s gaze.

Oh.

Too late, Gi-hun realises his mistake. His and Young-il’s are still conjoined, tangled up like they’re sewn together, and it’s embarrassing. He can’t imagine how puzzled Jung-bae must be – one moment Young-il was choking someone on the floor and the next, Gi-hun is sidled up to him like nothing had ever happened. Like everything was lovely and good. The idea makes him feel sick all over again, bile rising up his throat as his thoughts run wild.

That hand had almost killed someone. Probably has in the past. Gi-hun already knows that inadvertently, Young-il must have slaughtered at least a thousand people by now. How much blood truly stained his hands? Did all those faces, twisted in agony and fear, ever visit his nightmares to reap their revenge? Did he ever wake up at night sweaty, with their screams of terror ringing in his ears?

Gi-hun wants to ask. Wants to reach into Young-il and touch his ugly, writhing guilt.

Rougher than he intends, Gi-hun rips his hand away, pulling it into his own lap again where it really should have been the whole time. A wave of cold hits his fingers – a torturous chill – but he resolutely ignores it.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Young-il’s hand fall limply to rest on his thigh, alone. The man rolls his shoulders back, sitting up a little straighter – tenser – and, suddenly, Gi-hun can feel the unmistakeable sensation of a stare boring into the side of his face. Like a mouse strolling into a trap, he meets it.

“What would you like me to play, Gi-hun?” His name falls from the other man’s lips with the reverence of a prayer – the faux sweetness of trust coating each syllable. In Gi-hun’s last life, he’d been fooled. Back then, no one was truly listening to him and that look – that easy, trustful gaze – had been so satisfying to bask in. Even now, Gi-hun aches for the pleasure of being understood with a fervour he recognises distinctly. How stupid, he must have been to ever think he could find that kind of comfort somewhere in the man sitting in front of him.

Young-il waits patiently for an answer and Gi-hun, suddenly, wants to pull back a fist and launch it at his passive face. His next words are pushed out through clenched teeth.

“You don’t mind?” Young-il leans closer, too calm and too unbothered.

“I trust you to make this choice for me.” He says matter-of-factly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Liar.

Irritation boils up in him as he takes in Young-il’s assured expression. When he looks closely, Gi-hun can see he’s amused, like the other man is laughing quietly to himself at a joke only he’s privy to. Young-il, confident and so certain in his plan, thinks that Gi-hun can’t see his hand. Thinks that Gi-hun has no idea of the cards he yields that make this game of theirs unbelievably unfair. Young-il thinks – no – he knows he’ll win.

Gi-hun doesn’t want to play anymore. He’s never wanted to, really, but he can’t seem to stop. It’s almost like his gambling addiction has returned in a new, more terrifying form that he can’t seem to escape – dragging him back to test his luck one more time, even though he has nothing left to lose. Maybe, watching him be robbed of everything is the sick satisfaction that Young-il gets out of all this.

Gi-hun can’t win, can’t strike big, if he keeps playing by Young-il’s rules.

But, what are those rules? It’s best to play it safe until I know.

“I’ll play Jegi.” He speaks into the space between them, a bitter edge to his voice that he hopes only he can hear. Young-il smiles, and Gi-hun hates him.

“Then I’ll play Spinning Top.”

The first two groups to play begin to make their way through the mini games much like Gi-hun remembers.

The team with a woman fail a few times at Ddakji before player two hundred and eighty-six finally gets the small bit of paper to flip. They go on to beat Flying Stone on the first hit, taking crucial seconds to celebrate wildly, and then Gong-gi after a couple of tries. Their pace is decent – nothing takes up too much of their time – but Gi-hun can already tell, like before, it’s just not good enough. They mess up on Spinning Top as well and inevitably, all these small set-backs begin to accumulate.

Despite this, they’re still doing much better than the other team.

The group of all men flip the ddakji on the first try but from there, it all falls apart.

Player one hundred and ninety-eight misses the first throw in Flying Stone. After getting the stone back and shuffling to the line, he takes another shot and misses again, much to the horror of his teammates.  It was gut-wrenching to witness the first time and somehow, it’s even worse the second time. There’s something about knowing that the man’s next throw will just clatter to the ground that makes it so much harder to watch, Gi-hun finds. Gradually, all five faces drop further and further as their hope diminishes, leaving behind raw, unbridled distress that floods out of each of them in waves. The other four panic, grab at the player’s arms and shake the poor man back and forth, but it doesn’t work. The man’s hands only grow shakier with each failed throw.

The whole time, Gi-hun intermittently stares down into his lap as if looking away might erase the harrowing sight in front of him. He can still hear the cries, however, and the pitiful sound of the stone colliding with the floor. It rings in his ears with the repetition of an echo: thud, thud, thud.

The timer creeps down and still, the group fails to pass Flying Stone. With two minutes left on the clock, the men stumble back to the line again and prepare to throw once more. Gi-hun looks up at the familiar numbers and, just like during Red Light, Green Light, he’s struck with a memory.

“Hey! One hundred and ninety-eight! Pull your foot back!” Gi-hun tries to warn the player who’s about to make the throw and for a moment, he thinks it may be fruitless. The buzz of the crowd around him threatens to drown out his words and he’s not as close to the track as he should be, though he can’t bear the thought of moving any closer. He holds his breath, waits, and then finally the man turns his head.

He locks eyes with Gi-hun, frowns and slowly drags his gaze down to his feet. Gi-hun’s too far away to hear it, but he can see clearly as the man’s lips part in what must be an audible gasp. He rips his foot back like it burns, over the line again, and wraps his hand around the stone tighter.

“Go on, throw it!” One of his teammates shouts in his ear. The man shifts his arm, grimaces and lets go.

Clunk.

Against all odds, the stone makes impact. The small gravestone crashes to the ground and as it clatters, the team erupts with excitement. Player one hundred and ninety-eight launches his arms into the air as the two men next to him wrap their arms around his shoulders, jostling him around as they shout.

“Pass.” The guard’s arms lift up over their head to make a circle and at the sight, one of the players begins sobbing in relief.

Inside the tracks, people begin to rise to their feet to get a better look at the groups playing on them. Gi-hun rises with them slowly, legs shaking and never taking his eyes off the men in front of him for a moment.  

It’s captivating, Gi-hun thinks, watching hope prevail in the face of adversity. Part of these men must know that it’s over, that they’ve lost too much time to get through the other three mini games and yet, they push forward anyway. They stagger over to Gong-gi and give the game their best shot despite having a minute left on the clock. They eye each stone as they’re thrown into the air and caught, like looking away will seal their fates. Gi-hun enters a trance, watching the riveting display of perseverance with awe.

He wonders, idly, if what he’s experiencing is similar to how Young-il feels about him. If when the other man looks at him, he’s also mesmerized by the hopeless determination he sees, rising above all self-doubt and reasoning like a bubble in water. Gi-hun thinks he might understand Young-il’s fascination and he hates it.

Neither team ends up crossing the finish line.

The team with the woman never makes it to Jegi, exactly like last time. Just before the timer reaches zero, two soldiers step onto the track and lift their guns up, waiting for their cue to shoot. A few seconds pass, then the timer beeps and a woman’s voice fills the room.

“Your time is up.”

The five of them stumble back a few steps, a reflex brought on by fear. Horror rips across each of their faces and seeing this, Gi-hun’s heart sinks right out of his body like a weight dropping to the floor. He feels frozen, as though every part of his body except his racing mind has slowed to a stop, and he can do nothing to fight it. In fact, he’s useless to do much else but feel.

He feels the responsibility of these people’s imminent deaths digging into his conscience and god, he feels the same way for any more people who will lose their lives during these games. Gi-hun doesn’t want to fail any more people. Doesn’t want to watch anyone else die, when there might be something he could do to save them.

Suddenly, breathing becomes a challenge – each inhalation of air particles getting stuck in his chest like little daggers. It burns.

Then, the sound of bullets is the only thing that can be heard.

It’s worse than watching players be eliminated in Red Light, Green Light, Gi-hun realises. During the first game, it was a single shot to the head – borderline clinical – that took players out. In Six Legs, it’s brutal, bloody and merciless. The soldiers unleash a wave of bullets that sink into the wall of flesh in front with ease, leaving carnage in their wake. A geyser of blood shoots out of each wound, a flash of familiar crimson, and then the group is tumbling to the floor where they finally stop moving for good.

Even when they’re down, the soldiers aim another dozen shots at their immobile bodies, just to be sure.

Across the room, the team of all men falls to the ground too. There’s a loud clatter as the Spinning Top in player four hundred and sixteen’s hand slips out of his grip and then, it’s silent.

Gi-hun doesn’t register he’s stopped breathing until a warm arm loops around his own, hanging limply by his side. He gasps at the sudden contact and with this, a rush of cold air floods into his mouth that relieves some of the unbearable pain in his lungs. The much-needed oxygen gets his body stuttering into action again and instinctively, the first thing he does is turn his head.

Gi-hun wonders if Young-il ever gets bored of looking at him. He must not, because he never seems to stop and the spark in his eyes never dims – nurtured by whatever he must see in Gi-hun’s expression. As a matter of fact, whenever he meets the other man’s gaze – when their eyes lock and everything around them ceases to exist – that flame only grows brighter.

No one has ever looked at him like that before. Looked at him like it would physically hurt them to turn away.

It would feel amazing if they were anywhere but here. If it was anyone but Young-il.

The man doesn’t say anything, just buries his fingers into Gi-hun’s jacket and leans in closer, like he’s trying to chase the warmth of the body next to him. It’s clearly intended as a comforting gesture to what they’d just witnessed – a silent reassurance – but Gi-hun’s too busy being taken aback by the boldness of it. Young-il had never touched him so daringly in his past life. Had never touched him like Gi-hun might suddenly slip away from him.

It hits him then, like a brick. Something has obviously shifted between them. A crucial line has been crossed and he’s not sure when it happened but he knows it has and he knows it was a mistake. Gi-hun doesn’t like this new facet of their relationship. It’s one that makes the other man that much more unpredictable.

Dangerous.  

He shifts his eyes past Young-il’s head, suddenly overwhelmed, to Jung-bae standing close by. His friend is staring at the point of contact between the two of them, face twisted in suspicion that Gi-hun knows he won’t be able to escape from. When they’re back in the main room again, he’s certain that Jung-bae will pull him to the side and ask him what’s going on. Gi-hun isn’t sure what he’s going to tell him when he does.

Jung-bae meets his eyes for a brief moment, a thousand questions in a simple gaze. Gi-hun wants to rush over to him – wants to grab him by the shoulders and tell him everything. It’s tempting and he tenses as though he may move but, out of nowhere, the hand grasping his arm tightens.

“Gi-hun.” Young-il’s breath grazes his face, dragging his attention back. The single word comes out oddly stiff, the lovely dulcet quality of Young-il’s voice mysteriously absent, and it’s another unfamiliarity that Gi-hun finds he hates.

“Yeah?” Young-il frowns – a slight, almost imperceptible tug to his eyebrows – and Gi-hun can’t look away. His heart begins to slow again, returning to its usual rhythm as he takes in the other man’s expression. It’s confusing, he decides.

Then, Young-il’s irritation is gone, disappearing so quickly that Gi-hun wonders if he may have imagined it entirely. The man smiles softly, kindly, but Gi-hun’s not fooled. He can still sense the undercurrent of unrest stirring in the other man, a quiet fury that has not yet left.

“Nothing.” Young-il says simply.

He’s lying. It’s definitely something and to Gi-hun, it feels important, like the critical piece to a puzzle that has evaded him for far too long. He thinks – he hopes – he may be finally starting to understand what that piece might be.

Young-il is a man who hides behind a wall of self-control, meticulously upheld. Gi-hun, perhaps a little recklessly, fully intends to smash this wall into pieces by whatever means necessary.

Chapter Text

Seong Gi-hun is a work of art.

There’s no other way to put it, really. Seong Gi-hun is a wonderful, beautiful sculpture of steadfast determination that In-ho can’t seem to chip away at, no matter how he goes about it. There’s no breaking the man, In-ho’s come to learn, only trying and succeeding in doing the exact opposite in the process. That sight – a mystery that defies that all sense and reasoning – is worthy of reverence. It had taken In-ho too long to understand that simple fact but at last, he gets it. 

It’s fascinating, what Gi-hun puts himself through for a task no one has asked of him. It’s amazing, the lengths the man will go to achieve something that anyone can see is impossible.

Any normal, sane person in his position would have given up by now. Would have seen the countless disadvantages that make this all so futile – the blatant worthlessness of a struggle with no chance of success – and stopped bothering. 

For one, he’s surrounded by utter morons. The idiots around Gi-hun will keep turning on each other, too obsessed with the fantasy of winning all that money to realise that they’re allowing themselves to be shepherded around. It’s so easy, In-ho has realised, to guide the greedy to their deaths. They just let it happen. 

It goes to show that when it really comes down to it, everyone is the same. Human beings will always be reduced to mindless sheep when an opportunity, any opportunity, to fulfil their desires makes itself known. It’s blatant selfishness, and to In-ho, it’s sickening.

Then of course, as if it wasn't hard enough for Gi-hun already, there’s the matter of In-ho’s true identity. Gi-hun will never catch on to who he really is and, if he’s being honest, it’s almost a shame. In-ho’s sure his reaction, whatever that might look like, would be riveting.

Gi-hun’s been dealt a misfortunate hand – In-ho has made sure of it – and it will no doubt be the thing that shatters the man's plan into pieces. Part of Gi-hun must know this and yet, he just doesn’t care.

It’s a foolish kind of bravery – recklessly self-destructive – and In-ho doesn’t get it but it’s for this exact reason that he can’t seem to tear his eyes away either. Gi-hun’s gloriously complex – a painting composed of a million intricate strokes and In-ho is obsessed with each and every one. He himself, though he did not know it at the time, is responsible for so many and it feels magnificent, like staking your claim on something that belongs solely to you.

It would have been so easy for Gi-hun to get on that plane. To leave all of this behind him.

Instead, he came back. Came back to him. It’s deliciously satisfying, a temptation he can’t resist, and all In-ho wants to do is sink his teeth into it. Taste what’s rightfully his to consume.

He can’t, not yet, but Gi-hun sure is testing his restraint.

It’s their turn to complete the pentathlon and, much to In-ho’s annoyance, he’s feeling unusually restless. Gi-hun’s right next to him, shackled to In-ho by the foot and somehow, it’s still not enough to satiate him. The two of them should be closer than this. In-ho should be able to feel the other man’s heart racing with fear in his chest, not be forced to simply imagine it. In-ho should be able to feel the rapid vibrations in his own chest, as if they’re coming from his own heart.

In-ho feels like he's going mad.

In his defence, it’s entirely Gi-hun’s fault. He’s been so much more enticing than In-ho could ever have anticipated – a quiet and brooding puzzle he can’t solve no matter how hard he tries. It’s unexpected, but then again, when has Seong Gi-hun not been a breathtaking enigma that keeps defying his expectations?

How stupid, In-ho was, to ever think he had Gi-hun understood. Had the man tied down, muzzled and subdued when player two hundred and eighteen had sunk the knife into his own neck in the rain, all those years ago. At last, In-ho sees what he should have all along: Gi-hun is not supposed to be restrained, no, that would extinguish the fire that makes him so beautiful to begin with.

In-ho’s hand still burns with the sensation of warm fingers, branding him like a declaration of ownership.

How can I get you to do that again, Gi-hun?

The room is barren besides their group, another team and a few guards. In-ho prefers it this way, he finds. It seems quite distracting to have a crowd of people flitting about in the corner of your vision when a single slip-up could cost you your life. In-ho doesn’t have to worry about being shot dead but ideally, he’d rather not be forced to reveal his identity so soon.

In-ho only has a few days and he intends to savour each and every one of them.

“It’s a little sad that we have no audience, isn’t it?” In-ho doesn’t like Jung-bae. He steals Gi-hun’s attention away far too easily – grabs it from In-ho’s very hands like it’s something he deserves more. He can’t stand the blatant dependency between the two of them either. Gi-hun always looks to Jung-bae for answers, for opinions and assurance and In-ho can’t stand it.

Something unkind stirs in him, hot, volatile and mean. Gi-hun isn’t here for Jung-bae, he’s here for him.

It’s childish. It’s immature and not like him at all but he can’t help it. In the back of his mind, he knows this game he’s playing is getting out of hand. He’s shuffling closer to a precarious ledge with no railing. He’s losing himself.

It’s already too late. All the progress you’ve made is slipping away.

“Guys! We’ll see you again at the finish line! Victory at all costs!” Jung-bae shouts across at the team on the other side of the room, a pointless attempt at inciting motivation in the group. In-ho can tell just by looking them that they won’t make it. In a few minutes, these five healthy, living people will take their last breaths. That’s just how it is.

“There doesn’t have to be people who take advantage of them like this. This… this needless bloodshed doesn’t have to go on.”

Gi-hun’s wrong. They’re sheep, reared to be slaughtered.

Greedy, witless sheep.

“Yes! We’ll see each other again!” A man at the end of the line shouts back. The rest of the team follow his lead, yelling their own encouragements across the space between their two separate tracks. In-ho has to agree with them – he’s sure he’ll see them again when their dead bodies are being loaded into coffins.

The team on the other track lock arms with each other, getting ready for the game to finally begin. Across the row, Jung-bae takes notice of this and starts to replicate the action – slipping his arms around the players next to him.

It feels lovely when In-ho feels an arm wrap around his right bicep, a firm grip that pulls him closer and warms his skin through the thin layer of fabric. In-ho turns to look at Gi-hun and to his delight, the other man is already facing his way. Gi-hun’s been so receptive to his attention thus far – responding in ways that hint at something very interesting indeed.

Gi-hun likes Young-il. Likes him a lot.

“Are you ready?” As Gi-hun speaks, In-ho’s eyes dart across to his cheek. The bruise on the side of Gi-hun’s face is beginning to look worse; a deep purple that makes In-ho see bright red all over again. He hates that man, player four hundred and forty-two, for daring to lay a hand on Gi-hun. In-ho would have killed him – god had he wanted to – but he’d assumed it would ruin everything. Young-il wasn’t supposed to be an angry, murderous man. In-ho was, and it was a side of himself he’s spent years smothering. Gi-hun couldn’t watch him kill that player, lest the man begin to suspect more than he should. 

However, if In-ho had known Gi-hun would look at him like that afterwards, he thinks he would have just gone the whole way, consequences be damned.

“Of course.” In-ho tilts his head slightly, curious.

“Are you feeling better, Gi-hun?” He loves the taste of the name on his tongue, sweet like honey. Everything about the man is like that – sickening, yes, but so tempting at the exact same time.

Gi-hun doesn’t respond straight away. Instead, he stares; dissects In-ho with his intense gaze that feels far too knowing. Considering all the weaknesses In-ho has had to stifle to get himself to where he is, he doesn’t like it one bit.

What do you see, Gi-hun? A friend? A monster?

Gi-hun parts his lips, but In-ho never gets to hear what’s about to leave them. All of a sudden, their conversation is rudely interrupted by a woman’s voice:

“Let the game begin.” A gunshot rings through the air, and then In-ho’s being tugged forward, over the start line. Gi-hun looks away from him.

Everything from that point onwards happens so fast; a series of events in quick succession.

In a matter of a few seconds, they’ve already arrived at the first mini game. Player two hundred and twenty-two rushes to grab the piece of card from the box in two hands, steeling herself quietly. She takes aim, eyes the ddakji on the floor, before throwing her arm down.

Bang.  

It flips and In-ho must admit, he’s impressed. He hadn’t been very good at Ddakji when he’d played against the recruiter himself, all those years ago. He doesn’t like thinking about that point in his life – the time when he’d actually been in these players’ positions, desperate for that money. He’s glad he was able to leave that man behind, rise above the useless emotions that had dragged him down for so long and become someone new. Someone better.  

He had been weak back then, and an unintelligent fool to not realise so sooner.

The other three celebrate the woman’s victory, but Gi-hun remains silent, staring down at the flipped ddakji with a thoughtful look in his eye. The man’s been quieter than usual for a while, actually. It’s uncharacteristic – Gi-hun’s usually fiercely unafraid of adding his input, no matter the situation. He’d been particularly outspoken four years ago but, much to In-ho’s disappointment, some of that outward fire has clearly retired inwards.

Some of it stills brews in his eyes though; In-ho’s always looking into them far too often to miss it. 

They shuffle forward to the next mini game without much issue. They’re getting faster, acclimatising to moving as line rather than individuals and In-ho would go as far to say that he’s almost having fun. If there’s anything he’s missed about the games, it’s the adrenaline. After so many years on a comfortable leather armchair in front of that endlessly vast screen, the anticipation of what would happen next had quickly died. There was nothing at stake – nothing to catch his breath and pull him in – just things he’d seen a thousand times before.

Gi-hun had come along and changed that. Had broken the monotonous cycle and made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in such a long time.

“When I played baseball, my pitches might have been slow, but I had flawless ball control.” As Jung-bae speaks, he gestures for player three hundred and eighty-eight to move back and give him some space to wind his arm back. To prevent the young man crashing into him, In-ho takes a couple steps backwards himself. His arm brushes against the chest behind him, the tempting warmth of Gi-hun’s body, and if In-ho was a little more shameless, he might have leaned back even further to rest his full weight on the other man. It would be so easy, so right.

He knows he can’t – Gi-hun would just jump away like a frail animal in the face of a predator. There’s some things In-ho has been forced to accept he can never have, and this is one of them.  

But, what if you could?

In-ho shouldn’t even think about it. They stand for two completely opposed ideals – two separate goals that cannot ever coexist. In-ho craves destruction, Gi-hun strives for salvation. In-ho is keenly aware of humanity’s sins, Gi-hun endlessly searches for the virtues amongst them all.

One of them has to meet their end, for the other to prevail.

Across the row, Jung-bae tugs his sleeve up and widens his stance. He squints, then flicks his wrist. The stone hits its target with remarkable precision, sending both pieces flying across the track, picking up blood as they tumble. At the sight, the young man next to him begins to celebrate fervently, shaking Jung-bae as he cheers.

“Yes! You did it!” In-ho holds his own fist up at the victory, unable to stop himself getting caught up in the excitement of the game once again. He really should stop doing that.

They move onto Gong-gi, approaching the guard holding up a small black table as the timer hits four minutes. Player three hundred and eighty-eight scoops up the five small stones in one hand and kisses his fist, eyes squeezed closed. He radiates nerves, but In-ho can sense hope in his body language too, just as prominent as the fear that accompanies it. The young man breathes deeply before crouching down in front of the table on the floor.

In-ho lowers to the ground as well, pulling Gi-hun down with him. Their arms stay linked and Gi-hun doesn’t make any move to separate them, much to In-ho’s delight. He moves to look at the man – to meet that burning gaze – but before he can, Jung-bae is talking and Gi-hun’s lovely attention is stolen away before his very eyes. Again.

“Stay calm, even if you mess up.” It’s good advice, but hard to follow in practice. Player three hundred and eighty-eight raises a finger up to his lips, telling Jung-bae to be quiet so he can focus. Jung-bae sits back, successfully silenced, and In-ho finds he quite likes the kid for achieving such a difficult feat.

The young man throws the stones down onto the black metal below and begins to play, but In-ho quickly finds there’s no point trying to concentrate on the game. He can’t, not while Gi-hun’s leg is pressed up against his own and their arms are still interlocked, creating so many points of contact between the sides of their two bodies. Gi-hun runs so warm, In-ho has realised. It’s maddening.

Gi-hun moves a hand to rest in the crook of his arm, nestling there gently before gripping a little harder, and for some reason, it’s suddenly too much. The itch in In-ho’s bones morphs into an aching need – mutates into a blazing inferno of want that tears through him with the heat of a bullet, fast and merciless. In his gut, the ever-present hunger doubles in size, eating away further at his patience.

How easy it would be, to take what’s his.

Seong Gi-hun’s mind already belongs to him. The man’s determination, his fear, his anger, his hatred – every emotion, big or small, is In-ho’s whether he likes it or not. It’s well within In-ho’s right to test the limits of these emotions – to add fuel to the fire and seek pleasure from the warmth of the emboldened flame.

Seong Gi-hun’s body, on the other hand, will never be his.

While In-ho would love to watch the other man fracture into a thousand pieces and scoop up his pitiful remains, he doesn’t want to break him like that. There’s no satisfaction in obtaining what he desires through those means – it would hardly be an even playing field and therefore, there’s no point. In-ho always respects the rules of the game, and this is no exception.

Next to him, Gi-hun shifts to get a better look at the stones that player three hundred and eighty-eight is currently throwing into the air. He leans closer, shoulder pressing further into In-ho’s and the action leaves a few tantalising inches between their heads. If In-ho turned away from the game, he knows he would feel Gi-hun’s even breaths brush against his own lips.

In-ho can’t have Gi-hun the way he wants to, but surely, the same restrictions don’t apply to Young-il. Gi-hun would loathe Hwang In-ho, would never sit so close to him if he knew the truth, but for the next week, that man doesn’t exist. Only Young-il does, and Gi-hun likes Young-il.

In-ho’s almost jealous of himself. Jealous of the persona he’s temporarily adopted for receiving the kind of attention he’s dreamt about for so long.

Beside him, the young man playing turns to look up slowly at the guard, unfurling his hand to reveal five colourful stones sitting neatly in his palm. The kid had pulled it off first try.

“Pass.”

The guard lifts their arms over their head and instantly, the man’s face erupts with joy. He shouts happily and In-ho finds his excitement contagious, scratching a persistent itch in him that he wasn’t aware existed until now. He lets himself grin, watching hope and determination win against all that opposes it.

Eager to not waste another second, the others rush to their feet to move on to the next game. As they do, Gi-hun’s hand in the crook of his arm slips away, dropping back down to his side again where it had been previously, before the man had leaned over. It hangs loosely – taunts In-ho mockingly.

On second thought, it’s a shame the young man couldn’t fail at least once.

“Ready, go!”

As they continue to make their way around the track, In-ho spares a glance at the other team. They’re huddled around the small Gong-gi table, having made it pretty far, but from what In-ho can see, their luck seems to have run out. One of the players reaches out and begins shaking the arm of the woman next to them erratically, as if it will do anything to improve her performance – as if by magic she’ll catch the stones successfully. Along the row, another man clutches at his head with his hands, distressed.

In-ho was right. What little chance this team has is diminishing by the second, and he’s certain that in a couple minutes, it will have vanished completely. This is the design of these games, perfectly curated to maximise the suspense for the pleasure of an audience that knows how to appreciate them. Hope can transform into hopelessness in the blink of an eye. Lives can be ended like fires, extinguished by a simple dash of water.

In an attempt to placate any remaining fear, Jung-bae starts shouting, addressing their own group loudly.

“We’ve got plenty of time!” He’s right. If they keep it up and make it through the next two mini games with minimal error, they’ll be one of the fastest teams to complete the pentathlon. At this realisation, some of the addicting adrenaline rushing through In-ho’s veins loses its kick.

An idea blossoms into his head, taking root in a way that’s difficult to shake. It’s a cruel scheme, to purposely fail just to see how Gi-hun would react, he can admit. It’s dangling all their lives in front of the muzzle of death, playing with a fire that could leave a terrible burn, but In-ho can’t help himself. He wants – needs – to finally goad a reaction out of the other man, to see panic take full control and bathe in the splendour of such a mesmerizing sight, with an ardour that leaves him fixated.

Just a glimpse, and he might be able to control himself again.

Since the start of their go, In-ho hasn’t failed to notice Gi-hun’s odd behaviour. The other three have shouted, thrown their arms in the air and yelled, eyes lighting up in astonishment at each win. Gi-hun has only smiled forcefully, a far-off look in his eye as he’s watched the rest of his team cheer.

It’s like he’s not even surprised. Like he isn’t worried that these could be his final minutes.

It’s another thing to add to the long list of peculiarities In-ho doesn’t understand, but desperately wants to. He yearns to tear Gi-hun apart with his very hands to find these answers himself, but that wouldn’t be much of challenge, and In-ho has always loved a challenge.

Gi-hun is hiding something and what fun – how satisfying – it would be to have the man hand this ‘something’ over freely, without any struggle.

Mind turning, In-ho’s eyes drift from Jung-bae over to the young woman at the end of the line. Player two hundred and twenty-two. She’s clearly pregnant and quite far along at that. Even if she hadn’t told Jung-bae and him earlier, it would have been obvious from the way she holds her stomach as she walks and the worry that tugs at her eyebrows as she does so. Despite her handicap, she’s undeniably strong, pushing through the game valiantly in spite of the strain on her body.

A sudden surge of long-forgotten emotion courses through In-ho, prompting him to call out to her.

“You’re expecting, so be careful.”

She shouldn’t be in the games to begin with, really. It disrupts the fairness that’s supposed to give everyone an equal chance to win – the careful balance that the games were meticulously crafted around. It’s just not fair.

Or, maybe you’re starting to care about her. You don’t want to see her die.

In-ho can’t start thinking like that. It’ll ruin everything.

They arrive at Spinning Top soon enough. In-ho played a lot with Jun-ho growing up so he’s not that worried about messing up. A brief glance up at the timer confirms they have three minutes remaining – plenty of time to account for any errors.

Would it really hurt, to fail a few times? It won’t feel as satisfying, crossing that finish line, if he doesn’t.

He picks up the toy and wraps the string around the axle before turning it over to begin the tedious process of wrapping it around the bottom. From watching all the other teams compete, he’s determined that it’s better to go slowly rather than trying to rush, seeing as the string comes away very easily. He’s halfway there when Jung-bae shouts over to him.

“There’s no rush. Take your time.” In-ho fights back the urge to frown. What does it look like he’s doing?

“Damn, we might get through everything on the first attempt!” The young man next to him clasps his hands together as he grins exuberantly. His eyes dig into the side of In-ho’s head, but In-ho’s hands don’t falter – don’t shake even for a second.

Poor kid.

Once he’s finished wrapping the bottom of the toy, In-ho pulls his arm back to throw. Sadly, to let him do so, Gi-hun has to release In-ho’s arm for the first time since they’d linked them to give him room. In-ho had hated the centimetres that had separated their bodies before but it doesn’t compare to the chasm between them now, so vast and unnecessary.

Stop running away after getting so close. 

When he lets go of the spinning top, he does so with his right hand. As he expects it to, the toy crashes to the floor and falls still. He can feel the excitement bleed out of his teammates as they watch, filling the air with suffocating disappointment.

“Fail.”

He shifts his head to take in the reaction he’d been anticipating the most. Will Gi-hun be trembling, realising at last what’s really at stake, returning to this place again? Will fear fill his wonderfully expressive eyes, widened to reveal a platter of complex emotions for In-ho to feast upon? Of course, In-ho – or rather, Young-il – will swoop in to ease this fright, as any good friend would.

Why would Gi-hun ever need Jung-bae, if he has Young-il?

In-ho gets neither of the reactions he’d hope for. Instead, he gets something that makes him want to turn his own head away again instead.

Gi-hun looks at him like he sees straight through him. Like he knows that In-ho just threw the toy with his non-dominant hand to drag their time down a little further. It’s such an intense stare, so similar to the one he’d given In-ho a few minutes ago, and his thoughts run wild under its perusal.

Gi-hun can’t know he’s the Frontman yet. The man is simply too eager to trust others – to put his life in the hands of another in spite of the obvious dangers such a risk poses. It’s the stupidest thing you could do in a place like this – to trust blindly – but Seong Gi-hun does, and he’s never learned from his mistakes before now.

He had trusted his childhood friend – a reserved, intelligent man who’s tried to ruthlessly kill him during the sixth game despite their previous camaraderie. He had trusted player sixty-seven as well, a young North Korean woman if he remembers correctly, despite the fact she’d pick-pocketed him prior to the games.

And then, worst of all, he’d trusted Oh Il-nam, the wicked pioneer behind everything Gi-hun was now attempting to dismantle.

There’s no way Gi-hun had failed to see that coming, but could somehow miraculously see the Frontman standing in front of him now. Just how much had the man changed? In-ho had thought this would be easy. He had thought Gi-hun was still naïve enough to fall into the same trap as he had so many times before.

Their group shuffles forward as a line to retrieve the toy as quickly as possible. In-ho can’t shake Gi-hun’s expression out of his head as he picks the toy up, no matter how hard he tries. Maybe getting close to Seong Gi-hun was a more dangerous game than he had originally thought.

By the time they’ve returned to the guard, In-ho has the string wrapped around again. He prepares to throw once more but before he can wind his arm back, a hand lifts up and comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Try your other hand.” In-ho freezes. He manages to control his facial muscles enough to conceal his surprise from the other man, but it does nothing to slow his racing heart.

What?

He tries to save the situation, to pull together the fracturing pieces of ‘Young-il’ into something real enough to fool the man next to him:

“But this is my dominant-“

“No it isn’t.” Gi-hun cuts him off and In-ho’s mouth snaps closed. A curling heat begins to stir in him at the tone the other man had used and it pushes insistently at the cracks in his composure, begging to be released. Oh.  

Gi-hun knows what his dominant hand is. Has been paying so much attention to Young-il that he’s picked up on such a small detail that most people would have missed. In-ho’s stunned silent by the rush of desire that suddenly rushes through him, pulling all the heat in his body downward.

Gi-hun must take his silence for something else, because he lifts his hand and-

“Young-il.”

Gi-hun wraps his hand slowly around the base of In-ho’s neck and presses his thumb down gently. It’s barely any pressure – a mere threat to get a point across – but that doesn’t mean In-ho can’t feel it.

Fuck.

When In-ho swallows, the delicate flesh of this throat strains against the tip of Gi-hun’s thumb. Their eyes lock and seconds stretch on, tension thickening the air around them. In-ho almost chokes on it, nearly collapses in on himself like he’s never been touched before. He struggles to care about how pathetic he is for such a response, not when it feels this amazing.

“Hey! What are you waiting for? Throw it!” Jung-bae’s irritating voice slices through the moment like the swoop of a sharpened knife. Gi-hun’s gaze darts past his head – away from where it belongs – and suddenly, simmering rage rushes in to mingle with the arousal swirling in In-ho’s gut. In the blink of an eye, the other man’s hand slips away from his neck innocently, returning to his side like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

Too suddenly, In-ho’s neck is hit by a wave of cold air, the absence of five warm fingers wrapped neatly around it painfully pronounced. If Gi-hun wasn’t so fond of Jung-bae, In-ho would kill him in an instant.

Frustration reaching a crescendo, In-ho passes the toy into his other hand and rips his eyes away from Gi-hun’s face to focus on the stretch of track in front of him. He throws the toy and this time, it spins.

“Pass.”

Their team explodes with excitement but In-ho can barely hear them. He stares at the side of Gi-hun’s head, the loudness of his mind drowning out their cheers.

That. How do I make you do that again?

A minute and a half left, they stumble on to the last game with plenty of time remaining. Gi-hun grabs the jegi from the box roughly and pushes the guard away to allow himself the room to play. Before he can, In-ho grasps the man’s bicep, needing to feel Gi-hun’s gaze on him again.

“Hey. Don’t rush, you have plenty of time.” Whatever tension that had festered between them a minute ago has completely dissipated, but the itch in In-ho’s limbs has only grown more unbearable since. It threatens to push him forward, to make him pounce like every part of him aches to.

Pull yourself together.

Gi-hun glances over at him with a strange look in his eye, like In-ho has said something that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it doesn’t – In-ho isn’t sure what compelled him to open his mouth in the first place. Gi-hun frowns slightly at his words and then the look is gone, carried away by something In-ho can’t identify. The man nods and turns away.

Without wasting any more time, Gi-hun throws the toy into the air and lifts up his foot to hit it.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“Pass.”

The moment the man’s foot hits the jegi a fifth time and the woman’s voice calls out on the PA system, the team erupts with joy. Gi-hun loops an arm around In-ho’s neck as they all trip over their feet to get to the finish line.

There’s no feeling quite like it, when they do. In the heat of the moment, In-ho wraps both his arms around Gi-hun’s torso and, with a beat of hesitation and a fragile smile, Gi-hun reciprocates. The tight embrace, the crush of their limbs against the other’s, is everything. It’s the closeness In-ho had imagined obsessively, the racing heart and ferocious warmth of another body pressed against his own. Gi-hun’s so alive in his arms and it feels so right, like they were made to fit around each other like this.

In-ho never wants to let go. He wants to sink his teeth into the other until he isn’t sure when one of them ends and the other begins. He wants them to become one.

He pulls back slightly, not enough to separate them, but enough to look Gi-hun in the eye again.

“We did it, Gi-hun. We’re alive.” He’d meant the words in earnest, but the other man clearly finds a meaning behind them that doesn’t exist. Gi-hun’s smile drops at the edges, almost sadly, and at this, In-ho finds he misses the way the man used to grin four years ago – so happy and carefree. He hadn’t appreciated it much at the time but now he almost wishes he had.

“Yeah. We’re alive.” Gi-hun repeats his words like he’s convincing himself of something In-ho can’t place. Normally, he’d feel frustrated at this, but it’s hard to feel anything but a wave of bliss when the other man adjusts his arms around him, pulling them both closer together.

It’s a perfect moment, a high In-ho wants to keep riding for eternity, and it’s ripped away from him far too soon. The sound of gunshots rips through the silence of the room – too loud to be ignored – and just like that, the moment is over. Gi-hun’s head turns to look over at the other team and In-ho knows what he sees. He follows the man’s gaze and grimaces.

The other groups’ corpses greet him, five bodies and dozens of holes, oozing blood that only contributes to the giant red stains that already paint the track. In-ho had been right.

Gi-hun’s arms tighten around his back, hands clenching and unclenching as the woman’s voice begins to list out the numbers of the players that had been eliminated. His face drops completely, the small smile a thing of the past. In-ho holds onto the man more firmly, reaches up a hand to rest a palm against the other’s neck to comfort him, but apparently, this is the wrong thing to do. Gi-hun rips away from him like he’s been burnt and In-ho almost falls backwards from the force of the unexpected shove.

“Gi-hun-“ He attempts to reach for the man but is stopped right away. The man sticks out a hand, a clear sign that he doesn’t want In-ho coming any closer. Something in In-ho’s chest screams, a kind of pain he’s never felt before. Rejection.

A guard comes over to unlock the shackles connecting their feet swiftly. In-ho wants to reach down and stop them when they get to him and Gi-hun. He knows when that key turns, Gi-hun will slip away from him for good.

In the end, he can’t stop it. Gi-hun puts so much distance between them once he’s freed and In-ho just doesn’t understand. Gi-hun is supposed to like Young-il – he’d definitely liked him earlier when he’d placed his hand in the crook of his arm during Gong-gi. He’d happily hugged In-ho back when they’d won, just a moment ago.

There’s only one reason Gi-hun could be turning away from Young-il and that’s if he fully figured out that Young-il didn’t really exist at all. But that can’t be. In-ho’s been suspicious, but Gi-hun’s always been gullible – he’d never jump to the conclusion that one of his supposed allies was his greatest enemy, even if all the evidence pointed to it.

Gi-hun stands off to the side and watches, silent, as the bodies of the other team are lifted into black coffins and carried away. Jung-bae moves over to him and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Gi-hun doesn’t shrug him off.

In-ho’s going to understand. Seong Gi-hun was an enigma but In-ho didn’t intend for him to stay that way for long.

I’m going to know you, every part of you. And you – you’re going to hand over each bit willingly.

Chapter Text

When their group returns to the main room again, the numbness still hasn’t worn off.

Instead, the suffocating emotion haunts him like the ghosts of all the people he’d just watched die, burrowing deeper and deeper inside of him as tries to steady himself – to find some sort of stable footing. It’s fruitless. He’ll never get used to the sheer weight of the guilt – he shouldn’t – but a small part of himself wishes for a moment of reprieve, at the very least. He wishes the pain could subside altogether, so he might be able to do something about the damage it continues to inflict on his weak, tired heart.

What an idiotic fool, Gi-hun was, for ever thinking he was smart enough to save these people. What a selfish creature, Gi-hun was, for not ripping Young-il’s heart straight out of his chest the moment he saw him again, like the man deserved.

Young-il’s a monster for orchestrating these games, for overseeing them like he’s not condoning some of the most deplorable, heartless acts of violence ever to be committed. The two of them are supposed to be enemies, polar opposites, but Gi-hun’s beginning to think they might just be two sides of the same coin after all.

In the end, Gi-hun’s just as much of a sinner – the same monster wearing a different face – for letting this happen all over again.

He hasn’t been able to save anyone yet, not really. Most of the same people have lost their lives again, in the same way with the same terrified look in their eyes and Gi-hun’s just watched, like the Frontman has done for all these years. There’s no undoing that, even if he manages to get the others out by some miracle. Gi-hun can do nothing more for the dead – they’re gone for good and he isn’t going to be given another chance to change that.

How many lives need to be thrown aside like that, until the outcome isn’t worth the sacrifice?

Gi-hun doesn’t know what to do. He’d thought that reliving these days would give him an advantage, an upper-hand that he could wield against Young-il to put a stop to all of this for good. Admittedly, knowing Young-il’s true identity has helped to some degree. Gi-hun knows not to make the same detrimental mistake as he had last time – the mistake that had cost him everything: viewing Young-il as someone he could trust.

However, Gi-hun continues to fail to account for his greatest weakness of all – naivety.

It was never going to be easy as making a few different choices and hoping they’d manage to achieve what he couldn’t before. At the end of the day, Gi-hun’s still alone here – still just a number amongst a crowd of hundreds of digits. It’s lonely, terribly so, and for the first time since he’s woken up, Gi-hun can’t lie to himself.

He’s scared. Not of death – that’s a familiar friend – rather, of failure.

“Are you alright?” A warm hand plants itself down on his shoulder, shaking him out of his self-deprecating daze.

Jung-bae. His friend is a constant that helps keep in line the darkest of his thoughts – a focal point that Gi-hun can see clearly amidst the fog that clouds his brain further by the day. If there’s anyone he doesn’t want to fail, it’s Jung-bae. He’s someone Gi-hun knows he can genuinely trust amongst the lies and deceit here, something Gi-hun actually understands, and that feels too important to lose, especially now.

A goal emerges in his head like a beam of light piercing through a shroud of darkness. It illuminates a clear path before him, guiding him forward towards something tangible.

I’m going to get you out. I promise.

Gi-hun’s never been very good at keeping promises. It’s how he got himself into debt, way back in his early twenties. It’s how he never managed to quit gambling, despite losing his wife over his bad habits. It’s how he ended up back here again, even though he’d fought with everything in him to get out of here the first time.

Gi-hun has realised that he’s never been able to quit until he’s managed to achieve what he’s set out to do, and if that means breaking promises, making sacrifices, he will do so without hesitation. He hasn’t quite decided yet if it’s a damning weakness or an abnormal strength but it’s a habit he’ll never shake, that’s for sure.

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Jung-bae eyes him like he doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t push the topic any further. Gi-hun has the feeling he hasn’t heard the last of it, but thankfully, he’s been granted a moment to collect his thoughts.

As they move across the room to the steps they’d claimed as their own, Jung-bae sticks next to him and Jun-hee and Dae-ho follow closely behind. Gi-hun feels relief course through him when he hears the two distinct pairs of footsteps echo his own, audible over the gentle murmur of the room. He’s glad they both managed to join the group again, even if he sustained an injury in the process this time around.

Reminded of the punch, Gi-hun lifts up a hand to hover over his cheek, checking the extent of the damage. It’s badly bruised and could probably do with some proper medical attention, but he knows he won’t get that here. The bruising should die down in a few days but the persistent, dull ache that emanates from it is still annoying. The adrenaline of Six Legs had worked to distract him from the injury for a little while, but now they’re back in the main room, the pain has become prominent again.

“Shame there’s nothing we can do about that. Does it hurt badly?” Jung-bae gestures to the side of Gi-hun’s face as he collapses onto one of the steps in a mess of limbs. Gi-hun follows him, taking a seat next to his friend as he replies.

“Yeah, a little. It’s not important.” Jung-bae opens his mouth, seemingly to retort, but then he frowns, eyes darting away.

“What?” Gi-hun asks, confused. Jun-bae ignores him in favour of shifting his head to get a good look at the entirety of the room. Soon enough, he’s turning back again to lean closer to Gi-hun, almost conspiratorially.

“Where’d Young-il go?” Huh. Jung-bae’s right – Young-il had vanished into thin air.

“Was he even behind us when we walked in?” Jung-bae continues, looking over towards the door where they’d all come in from. There’s a triangle guard with a gun stationed outside it but no sign of Young-il.

It’s unsettling, Gi-hun decides. Young-il hadn’t slipped away at this point in their previous life, as far as Gi-hun remembers. For the duration of the torturously-long days and nights in his past life, he’s fairly certain Young-il never parted from the group for a moment, despite being able to do so whenever he pleased. Perhaps it was a way to fully immerse himself in the game – a way of stepping into the shoes of the man he was pretending to be. Gi-hun wonders, bitterly, if Young-il had ever lost himself in the act. Had struggled when the time had come to don the mask again.

Gi-hun thinks of Young-il’s face, the motionless lines of his careful expression, as he’d told the man to throw with his other hand during Spinning Top. He thinks of the way Young-il had frozen like a malfunctioning machine at his words, whirring to a stop after years of programmed obedience to leave behind the fragments of his cracking composure.

Gi-hun thinks of a hand pressed against his pulse – a set of cold fingers that had fruitlessly tried to drag him back from the deadly depths of unconsciousness that had claimed him at the end of his last life. It’s a memory that burns, evoking a longing in him that he can’t suppress.

The fact Young-il’s not here now is a clear consequence of Gi-hun’s choices in this timeline and the realisation makes worry stir in his gut, dreadful and foreboding. Anxiety overcomes his logical reasoning with ease, giving rise to the first pinpricks of panic.

Where are you, Young-il? You can’t just leave me here, not yet.

Maybe, Young-il had figured it out. Maybe this is his way of backing down and pretending none of this ever happened – a tie of sorts to allow them both to forget all about this. Young-il didn’t seem like the type of person to settle for something as meaningless as a draw, but Gi-hun’s aware that he’s been wrong about the man before. Wrong about a lot.

Gi-hun curses himself for being so forward. For letting himself get carried away during Six Legs and wrapping his fingers around the other man’s neck, as if that was normal behaviour between two people who were supposed to be total strangers. No wonder Young-il had put together the pieces so quickly, Gi-hun had practically handed them to him. God, he had damn near told the man how to assemble them.

Before he can silence it, a quiet part of his mind whispers, making another emotion join the growing concern in his chest:

Or, maybe, he’s gotten bored. Maybe, he doesn’t find this interesting anymore, now he knows he can’t have his fun with you.

Whatever the reason might be for Young-il’s absence, it’s not good. Young-il might be done with their game but Gi-hun isn’t, far from it in fact. To his left, Dae-ho pipes up.

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” Gi-hun’s going to hope so, or else he’s in trouble.

The time drags by and Young-il still doesn’t return. There’s no way of gauging how much time Gi-hun spends staring at the door, waiting for it to crack open and reveal the man. It’s one of the things he’s always hated about this place – how the hours merge together into one painfully long day that wears away at his resilience, bit by bit. The nights are even worse, hours of quietness that amplify the loudness of his own mind.

He spends the time chatting quietly with the group. He introduces himself to Dae-ho and Jun-hee properly, meaning he can finally use their names instead of vaguely gesturing to them whenever he wants to speak to them and he’s surprised to find this small development relieves some of the pressure weighing down on him. It’s nice, he realises, having one less thing to worry about in this place. It’s small, but it’s something.

When the alarm beeps and the double doors at the front of the room slide open to reveal a handful of masked guards, Gi-hun can see the writing on the wall, clear as day. If Young-il was going to come back, he would have done so by now, seeing as he needs to be here in person to cast his vote.

The soldier with the squared mask steps forward and starts speaking, addressing the crowd of heads turned his way.

“Congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game. Here are the results of the second game.” Once he’s done speaking, the guard lifts a remote up to the ceiling and clicks a button with a gloved finger. A beep sounds out, echoing in the tense silence of the room. Something above clunks, and then the room is being bathed in that familiar yellow glow once more, the one that Gi-hun loathes with everything in him. Heads turn upwards but, unlike the very first time he’d played, Gi-hun doesn’t have the energy to join them. He hasn’t had that energy in a long time, he’s realised.

A bone-deep tiredness tugs at his limbs, insistent.

People around the room stand up to get a better look as stacks upon stacks of money pour into the piggy-bank. Gi-hun can’t bear to watch to watch them but he can’t tear his eyes away either, no matter how much dread fills him at the sight. He remembers the first time he’d watched this, all those years ago. He remembers standing next to Sang-woo as they’d both craned their heads upwards, eyes wide, just like all these people do now. What fools they both were, back then. Idly, he wonders if Sang-woo would have still voted the way he did at the very start, if he knew what would become of the two of them in the end.

He isn’t sure. He wonders if he’d ever known Sang-woo, the real Sang-woo. Probably not, now that he thinks about it. Maybe Gi-hun had known the version of him that had existed before he’d gone off to SNU – the friend who had grown up alongside him and the plethora of quiet moments now lost to the maw of time.

The cold, calculated man that had entered the games? Gi-hun hadn’t recognised that Sang-woo, even when he stood in front of him, looking nearly the same as the day he’d left.

Gi-hun wants to go back even further in time, far enough that he might be able to stop everything from turning out so horribly, like it had in this timeline. He wants to be able to save Sang-woo, save everyone, like he’d failed to before.

It’s too late. Maybe, this is a cycle that’s destined to repeat and there’s nothing you can do about it.

But then, why would he be given another chance at this? There must be a way, something to break this hellish loop, or else he would have died, taking any chance of these games coming to an end with him.

A hundred and five players were eliminated during Six Legs, only five less than before. His heart sinks when the guard announces it and the screen above confirms what he says, a string of digits that display Gi-hun’s blatant incapability to do anything to save these players. He feels like he did in his past life, drowning in the immensity of his guilt.

Some of the crowd grow restless at the remaining player count, realising less people had died than they’d hoped. They start to question the guard with the square mask, yelling at him angrily that there had been a mistake and that there should be a recount immediately. Gi-hun tenses with the urge to bring his hands up to ears and block out their hollering, loud and meaningless. These people don’t get it. All they can think about is the money, as if real people haven’t died to get the total up to where it sits now.

He'd hate them for it, but what good would that do? The Frontman want to divide them, wants them to rip out each other’s necks like animals reduced to their primal instincts. Gi-hun won’t let himself fall into that trap.

“You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not.”

Before he hauls himself to his feet to join the growing mass of people at the front of the room, Gi-hun spares a final glance at the small door off to the side. It stays firmly closed and with this, the fragile remains of his hope fade away into nothing. It’s funny, how Young-il is so good at making that happen.

The doors open once more and two soldiers are revealed. The move forward, hauling with them the buttons Gi-hun has grown to hate with every fibre of his being.

“Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner.” Gi-hun hates it, the design of these games. The assholes wave this opportunity in everyone’s faces like it’s a noble thing to do – something they should be applauded for as if they didn’t just slaughter more than a hundred people with no remorse.

Democracy. It’s an empty gesture, when you bother to look closely. The people in charge of these games – Young-il and the people he surrounds himself with – know that the players here are desperate enough to abandon all logical thinking, when there’s so much to gain by doing so. If these people stopped for more than a second, they might realise they’re probably going to die here, if they just keep going. It’s always ‘one more game’ until that prize number rises again.

Exhausted, Gi-hun finally drags himself up to join the rest of the group. Jung-bae waves him over and Gi-hun moves to stand next to him as they wait for the voting begin properly. He can’t help but look at the red cross on his friend’s jacket, and then down to his own, remembering how things had played out in his past life. This is where his friend had voted for the games to continue. He stares at the side of Jung-bae’s head, wondering if there’s anything he can do to change that this time around. It’s worth a try.

“Hey, Jung-bae.” His friend turns to look at him and hums, distracted.

“When we get out of here, I can give you all the money you need. You wouldn’t have to pay it back.” Jung-bae’s eyes widen in shock, taken off guard by the offer. Then he laughs, reaching up a hand to lightly pat Gi-hun’s back.

“The Seong Gi-hun, offering me money? I never thought I’d see the day. You’re probably the only man in Ssangmun-dong in more debt than me!” Gi-hun frowns, taking offence at the words. He hadn’t been that broke.  

“Not anymore. I paid it all off.” He tries to defend himself, but it’s fruitless. Jung-bae looks at him like he doesn’t believe him which is rude, considering how honest he’s being. Gi-hun feels disgusting, trying to use money to manipulate his friend like this, and it’s not even working because Jung-bae still thinks he’s the poorest guy in a square mile.  

His friend quips back, a playfulness to his tone that shows he’s clearly not taking any of this seriously.

“With what money? You’re not still taking out loans, are you?” Wow. Gi-hun can’t think of anything to defend his case that doesn’t involve telling Jung-bae everything so he just scoffs and says nothing. The voting begins shortly after, and with this, their conversation is forgotten.

Strangely, they vote in a different order this time. In Gi-hun’s previous life, Young-il had voted first after the second game. Back then, Gi-hun’s heart had soared with admiration – with fragile hope – as he’d watched red light swathe the face of the man he’d grown to trust. He remembered thinking he could actually achieve something, with someone like Young-il on his side.

It’s laughable, how wrong he’d been in the end.

Part of him still doesn’t fully understand why Young-il voted to leave in the first place. Hadn’t casting that vote gone against what the other man really wanted? Terminating the games would have sent all these players home, and if that had happened, the spectacle would have come to a premature end.  

But the players return. They’ll come back in spite of everything they’ve witnessed here when that card is slipped under their door again.

Gi-hun wants to laugh bitterly. Was that also part of the games? Letting these players return to their shitty lives and watching as they inevitably crawl back, as desperate as ever?

If so, it’s fucking sick.

The guards call his number first and, with all the energy he has left in his old, tired body, he drags himself up to the buttons. He hates the way people stare at him as he pushes through the crowd, all dissecting and judgemental. It seems like most of them still view him as the crazy old man who had some sort of episode during Red Light, Green Light, similarly to before. He’ll let them think that, seeing as there’s little to no chance of convincing them otherwise.

He doesn’t waste any time once he’s arrived at the front, slamming his palm down onto the red button with more force than he intends. Gi-hun will never vote differently, no matter how many times he plays these games. It’s the constant that ties every timeline together.

Slowly, he moves over to the section of open floor that corresponds with his vote and watches as the next player steps up to the buttons.

As the voting proceeds, he doesn’t glance up at the score once. There’s no point, after all, he knows how this ends. Instead, he watches the players. He watches as so many people click the blue button immediately and indifferently step away, as if they’re not dooming the others around them, maybe even themselves, by voting for this to go on.

It’s what so many players fail to realise – they’re not gambling with money here, but rather, with lives. Gi-hun would try to tell them this, but his past life had shown him there was no point. If anything, people would become even more determined to prove him wrong.

When Young-il doesn’t interrupt the vote a third of the way through, Gi-hun’s suspicions are confirmed. It’s the sinking realisation that does it for him – the clarity of seeing the only plan he had in this second life crumble to pieces before his very eyes. There had hardly been a chance to put it into motion and, when he really thinks about it, wasn’t that fitting? These games will always find a way to take everything from him, even the things that seem impossible to steal.

Gi-hun isn’t sure how much fight he has left in him. Maybe a few more years, maybe a few more days.

When Jung-bae hits the blue button again, just like last time, he thinks it might be the latter.

At some point, Gi-hun is unable to keep looking. Overwhelmed, he stares down at his shoes instead, scrutinizing each crimson stain that paints the soles, once white and unblemished. It doesn’t help steady him like he’d hoped – if anything, it makes him feel worse. He tries his hardest to think about something other than the massacre he’d witnessed during Six Legs, the pools of blood and vivid screams, but it’s difficult. Next to him, Dae-ho asks him if he’s alright. Gi-hun can only hum noncommittally.

Eventually, he ends up thinking about what else he has left in this place, in this world, that isn’t tainted beyond recognition by the horrors of reality and senseless cruelty. Not much, he realises. Maybe, nothing at all.

The beeps of the buttons drag on, background noise to his deafening thoughts. Gi-hun’s so distracted, senses dulled by a whirlwind of emotions, that he almost misses it entirely.

“Player one.”

His head snaps up when the guard drawls out the familiar number, the digit he has come to learn he can never trust. Slowly, he turns his head to look towards the back, just like the people around him. He’s expecting to be greeted by an empty stretch of floor. He’s expecting to hear the murmur of voices as the players realise the guard has called a number and no person has stepped forward.

He’s not expecting, however, to see Young-il start making his way down the gap between the two groups of people. He walks calmly – unbothered – like he hadn’t just disappeared for a whole fucking hour and nearly given Gi-hun a heart attack in the process. Gi-hun is so pissed off, but more than that, he’s relieved. The sensation washes over him pleasantly – a perfect kind of warmth to combat the cold hopelessness that had been growing in him, draining him of the little energy he had left. It’s such an unfamiliar emotion in this place – raw relief – that he can’t recall the last time he’d felt it.

He doesn’t take his eyes off Young-il for a second, not even to blink, as the other man steps up to the buttons. He holds his hand out over the red one almost immediately but, unlike last time, he doesn’t lower it straight away to confirm his decision. Instead, he shifts his body to look over his shoulder, into the crowd. It takes a brief moment of searching, but like a magnet, Young-il’s eyes find his own.

Strangely, the man’s gaze is more intense than usual. It’s similar to one Young-il had given him when he was choking a player at the start of the second game – an inferno hidden beneath the lines of a cold expression that revealed so little. The unwavering stare burns in the sweetest, most addicting of ways and as much as Gi-hun doesn’t want to admit it, it’s become some weird kind of constant in a place where every small thing seems fleeting. It’s become something that’s his.

Young-il only looks at him like that, only seeks Gi-hun out in a crowd of hundreds of people, as though he needs to keep Gi-hun in his line of sight at all times. Maybe, he does. Maybe, Young-il views this as some exhibition – just a thrilling performance he can’t get enough of. Gi-hun hates it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t his.

A beep sounds through the room and for the first time since the vote started, Gi-hun looks up towards the score. The other side has won by a mile and it’s not even close, just like before. He watches as the number under the red cross goes up by one anyway, a vote that hardly meant anything in the end.

Eventually, he tears his gaze away from the scoreboard to see Young-il manoeuvring his way through the crowd towards him. When he arrives, the man swiftly slides into the empty space to his left, positioning himself closer than he needs to. Gi-hun supposes that, the brushing of shoulders and hands wrapped around his arm, is just something he has to get used to. Young-il shifts on his feet slightly uncharacteristically, like he’s deliberating, before turning to make eye contact again.

“Gi-hun.” Gi-hun almost doesn’t hear the word over the cheers of the people pleased with the outcome of the vote, a flurry of excited noise that drowns out the typical lowness of Young-il’s voice. The man’s close enough that Gi-hun can see clearly how his mouth shapes around the two syllables though, and that’s probably not a good thing.

Gi-hun doesn’t move. He looks down at his plan, the key to achieving everything he’s worked so hard for, and says the only thing that comes to his mind.

“Young-il.” The man must see something significant in Gi-hun’s expression because he smiles tentatively, reaching a hand to rest over the cross on the front of his jacket. Gi-hun doesn’t know how to feel about that. He doesn’t know how to feel about Young-il as a whole, if he's being honest. What parts of this were a ruse and what parts were real? Gi-hun hasn’t got a clue and it’s infuriating.

When the voting comes to an end and the crowd disperses, Young-il stays glued to his side. Across the room, Gi-hun sees Jung-bae staring nervously in the direction of their group, frozen still by hesitation. His friend frowns guiltily and the déjà vu hits Gi-hun like a slap to the face. Like last time, Jung-bae chooses not to approach, ducking behind a bed frame and disappearing from view completely instead.

Gi-hun looks away, a heavy feeling collecting in chest, and follows the rest of his group to their designated steps.

Before he sits down, Gi-hun spares one last glance over his shoulder, up at the score – the numbers that make him feel sick. One hundred and seventeen people had voted to leave, one hundred and forty-three people had voted to stay. Only one extra group had made it. One.

If Gi-hun wanted change, he would need to start working harder for it.

Chapter Text

“Young-il?”

Gi-hun breaks the silence first, voice slicing through the deafening quietness that’s making the air feel uncomfortably thick. One of the things Gi-hun loathes the most in this place is the voting. It had been the very point of contention that had shaken the group up in his past life too – dividing them with ease, just like the Frontman wants.

Gi-hun bets Young-il’s pleased, after all, he gets a front row seat this time. He gets to see up close as they all tear each other apart, like this is some zoo and he’s stepping into their cage for the first time.

Dae-ho and Jun-hee seem quite surprised by the outcome of the vote, or more accurately, by the unexpected decision of their fellow teammate. Despite only meeting him a few hours ago, Jung-bae’s betrayal has clearly cut deep, though it’s not difficult to see why.

Jun-hee is pregnant, so she must be distinctly aware that every second longer she spends here, the more chance there is that something will go horribly wrong for her and her baby. Dae-ho is a good kid but Gi-hun can tell that he’s timid at heart and cares far too much about the people around him – people like Jun-hee – to want this to go on any longer.

The two of them had thought that Jung-bae would vote like they had. All it took was the press of a button and that tentative trust had crumbled into pieces, splitting into fragments of admiration for a man that no longer deserved it. Gi-hun understands that – the agonizing feeling brought about when someone you thought you could rely on turns their back on you. He knows what it’s like, when that delicate kind of hope is ripped away before your very eyes by the person that instilled it in you.

In this place, people yearn for trust almost as much as they yearn for the money, he’s realised. It’s ridiculous, when you consider how transitory that sort of connection is when put to the test.

Unbidden, Gi-hun thinks back to the very first time he played, to the man that had killed himself after winning against his wife during Marbles. Had he tricked her – driven mad by his own survival instincts – or had she given up her own life for him, for love? It doesn’t matter, that was years ago now, but for the first time since it happened, Gi-hun finds himself curious.

Next to him, Young-il turns to look at him. The man’s been quieter than usual, though Gi-hun can’t place why. It’s either something to do with his disappearance, or he’s just surprisingly good at reading the room.  

“Yes, Gi-hun?” He hates the way Young-il says his name: the easy, innocent tone that inflects the syllables as they tumble out of his mouth. None of it’s real and Gi-hun can’t believe he’d ever missed it before – the deadly truth hidden under layers upon layers of fabricated camaraderie.

Young-il stares at him expectantly and Gi-hun’s mind races. A million questions flood to the front of his brain, collect at the tip of his tongue, but he can only truly focus on one.

“Where did you go, before the vote?” It’s been on his mind since the man miraculously reappeared but back then, it hadn’t felt like the right moment to broach the topic. Gi-hun scolds himself for not keeping his eyes on both of the doors, like he’d told himself he would. If he had, he wouldn’t have missed it when Young-il slipped back into the room again.

For a long moment, Young-il doesn’t react. He doesn’t move at all really, freezing like Gi-hun has accused him of something far more awful than just being disappearing from the room. The sight is strangely reminiscent of Young-il’s reaction when Gi-hun told him to throw with his other hand during Six Legs, when he thinks about it. With this realisation, Gi-hun finally connects the dots:

Is this speechlessness? Is this what it looks like when that mask cracks a little more, revealing glimpses of the man underneath?

A moment goes by and Young-il recovers quickly, answering calmly like he’d never hesitated in the first place.

“Ah, sorry. I was in the bathroom.” Gi-hun isn’t stupid – he knows it’s not the truth. How stupid – characteristically naïve – he’d been to ever ask, when it was obvious Young-il would just hand him another lie to join the ever-growing pile that already existed. What would it take, what lengths would he have to go to, in order to pry any truth from the grip of the man before him? If Gi-hun knew, he might actually be making progress, instead of sitting here, constantly trying to figure out what’s a trap and what’s not.

How laughable, I’m still running in circles like he wants.

Gi-hun takes too long to say anything and subsequently, Young-il shifts his head away like the conversation is over. Gi-hun’s too fixated on pressing further, digging his desperate fingers into the thin cracks of a weakening composure, to let the man do that. It’s not difficult to snatch Young-il’s attention right back – it never is.

“For an hour?” Young-il pauses for a second then looks back, almost warily. Gi-hun would go as far to say the man looks uncomfortable, though maybe he’s finally starting to see things that aren’t there. He really needs to get some sleep tonight, if he can.

Young-il’s sits up straighter, brief trepidation vanishing in an instant as he weaves together a new lie. He locks eyes with Gi-hun again and leans closer, like he’s about to confess something personal.

“No. I needed a moment to myself. Watching all those people get eliminated… it made me feel sick.”

You’ve watched more than just them. You’ve watched thousands of people die by your hand and now you want to lie and say it makes you fucking sick?

Gi-hun seethes quietly, feeling the familiar burn of anger begin to creep into his chest. He considers how satisfying it would be to kill Young-il right here, like the asshole deserves. There’s only one way to do it – with his bare hands – and that’s perfect, when he thinks about it. It’s an intimate kind of revenge that Gi-hun will be able to savour each and every bite of and best of all, it would be slow. It would be painful.

He can’t. It wouldn’t solve anything and, at the end of the day, that was the whole reason he was back here again to begin with. How shameful it would be, if he threw away this opportunity just to satiate his own greed for a few minutes, like some kind of animal. He’s disgusting, for even considering the idea.

He inhales steadily and nods his head, agreeing with what Young-il said.

“I know what you mean. All of this makes me sick, if I’m being honest.” He’s not lying – every aspect of these games makes him feel nauseous to some degree: the murder, the voting, the childlike theme weaved into it all. Confessing this to Young-il feels pointless when the other man clearly thrives off his discomfort but Gi-hun has spoken before he can think to backtrack. Next to him, Young-il smiles sadly and looks down at his feet as he replies in a soft voice.

“I’m glad you understand.”

I don’t. I don’t understand you at all, no matter how hard I try.

Gi-hun can’t bear to look at the side of Young-il’s face – the soft lines that he’d once admired, back when he had thought he knew what he was doing. He turns away abruptly and looks out into the vast room, escaping the sight like a coward. The gentle expression still haunts his thoughts, drawing forth a handful of memories he’d be better off forgetting.

It feels like it’s been years since he lived these days the first time – an eon since he’d stared at that face and seen a good, honest person he could trust. In that stretch of time, an exhaustion has accumulated that wears down on him like nothing else. It’s a distinct and persistent heaviness he can’t shrug off and it’s never been more prominent.

“Gi-hun.” Young-il’s voice pulls him back from the edge before he can lose his footing and descend down a train of thought that never leads anywhere safe. Right. This ache in his chest doesn’t matter at the moment, not when there’s still so much left to do. He can cry and kick and scream as much as he wants when he manages to get out of here.

If he manages to get out of here.  

He focuses on Young-il again, who is already looking his way. The other man stares, picking him apart with an intense gaze that hadn’t existed a few minutes prior when Gi-hun had first opened the conversation. Young-il’s always shifting before his very eyes, warping into a different person and then back again, as if he’s nothing but an illusion.

Gi-hun hates it – hates the fact he’s moulded a plan around the glimpses of a man he hardly ever gets to see. What would he have to do, to get more than that?

“Yeah?” Gi-hun pushes out the words into the inches of space that separate their faces, hoping to sound less cornered than he feels. Young-il makes it worse, leans forward even further until their shoulders press together, like personal space is a foreign concept to him. Before Gi-hun can react, Young-il starts speaking in a low voice.

“I never asked yesterday. When you find this ‘Frontman’-“ He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. Gi-hun holds his breath, biting his tongue as he anticipates the next part of Young-il’s sentence. When it comes, the other man whispers, barely audible:

 “-you’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

Oh. Well, wasn’t that a question.

Gi-hun doesn’t know what to say, can barely think through the fog clouding his brain. Is he supposed to agree? To lie and hope Young-il won’t catch him out? He’s already found the Frontman and the idea of killing him had only crossed his mind briefly, before he had promptly pushed it into the back of his mind again. It’s just too rash of a decision – a doorway that would lead nowhere.

What if these games were bigger than Young-il? They had to be, considering how much money it would cost to build a facility like this and provide the prize money every year – billions upon billions that would have had to come from someone’s pockets. If Gi-hun killed the man next to him, he has no doubt that someone else would eagerly step forward to take the man’s place. Then, things would just continue on as usual and Gi-hun would have a dozen more problems to worry about, like who he was up against instead and how he was going to dispose of them as well.

He also has a sneaking suspicion that a new Frontman wouldn’t be so lenient about his defiance. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if their first order was his execution – a bullet to the skull to silence him for good. It’s a miracle Gi-hun’s made it this far, if he’s being honest.

Next to him, Young-il’s periodic exhalations hit his face, cool huffs of air that contrast the smouldering heat in the man’s eyes. He doesn’t think Young-il wants to kill him, at least not yet.

Maybe never, if I’m lucky.

“Why do you ask?” Gi-hun’s whispers back, matching the other man’s volume from before. Young-il turns his head away for a moment, licking his lips as he considers the words and for some reason, Gi-hun’s eyes are drawn down to the action. He watches, frozen, as the pink tongue darts out, drags across lips and then retreats back into the mouth it came from again. Oh.

He shoots his gaze upwards, just as Young-il turns back to look at him again.

“Because I want to help you.” Young-il’s a good liar, but only when you don’t suspect he has any reason to do so. This is one of those instances, where it requires knowing the man’s true nature to see the ugly lie hidden underneath such soft-spoken words.

A bitter emotion climbs up Gi-hun’s throat, carving a sharp edge into his tone as he replies.

“I think you need to worry about yourself, Young-il.” There’s something cold to the way he says it, but Young-il only blinks at his words, unfazed. The other man doesn’t respond straight away and for a fleeting moment, Gi-hun thinks that means the conversation is over. He lets out the breath he’d been holding, relieved.

Then, Young-il reaches out a hand and rests it on his fucking thigh.

“Please. Let me do this with you.” Gi-hun wants to scream. He wants to push the man away with all the force he can muster and run away to hide in a corner and forget all about this weird interaction altogether. He wants to throw caution to the wind and give into the desire to just kill the guy, to rid Young-il from his life for good and pretend he was never in it to begin with.

Gi-hun chokes out the first thing he can think of that might grant him some kind an escape. He needs this to stop, preferably immediately.

“Okay, yeah I-“ Young-il’s fingers spread out, brushing across green fabric. Gi-hun panics and blurts out something he might have said in his past life, back when he was blissfully oblivious.

“-I need your help.” Unfortunately for him, it’s very much the wrong thing to say. Young-il’s hand on his thigh tightens and he smiles, a grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth in an achingly familiar way. He’s obviously pleased at Gi-hun’s compliance, in fact, he’s not even trying to find it.

Young-il opens his mouth to respond but, before he can, a voice speaks up from Gi-hun’s left.

“Oh, look! It’s finally mealtime.” Instantly, Gi-hun snaps his head to look at Dae-ho, taking any opportunity to break out of the conversation he’s trapped himself in. The man on his right doesn’t remove his hand, but it’s easier to ignore it when Gi-hun’s able to focus on something else.

He looks over to where Dae-ho is pointing and feels himself relax a little. The younger man was right, people were starting to queue up in front of four tables across the room. At each one there’s a guard, handing out a drink and some food. If Gi-hun remembers correctly, they were given some plain milk and bread after Six Legs.

Without wasting another second, he pushes off the step he’s sitting on, stumbling a little as he rushes to his feet. Young-il’s hand falls away in the process but Gi-hun doesn’t look back to take in the man’s reaction, too focused on freedom.

“Well, let’s go line up then.” He’s pleased to find that his voice comes out steadier again, firm and clear like he’s used to. To his left, Dae-ho nods eagerly and shoots to his feet as well, a youthful zeal to him that Gi-hun mourns the loss of in himself. He’s happy the kid is managing to stay positive, even in a place like this. Other than the games and the threat of other players, the most dangerous thing here can be the loudness of one’s own mind.

Dae-ho starts to make his way down the steps and Gi-hun follows him, albeit at a slower pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jun-hee rise to her feet as well, standing up in one swift movement.

The woman looks surprisingly well considering the stress of the previous game. Gi-hun can’t help but take a moment to admire the insatiable strength that overshadows her handicap so well he almost can’t tell she has one. He can’t imagine being in Jun-hee’s position – pregnant and forced to fight for not only her life, but her baby’s too. It must be horrible.

The mental and physical strain has to be starting to wear down on her by now, but her expression doesn’t reveal any signs of this. Gi-hun vows to ask her how she’s doing later, just to be sure nothing is wrong.

Gi-hun turns around fully, focusing on continuing to descend the steps. As he does so, he resolutely doesn’t look over his shoulder. If Young-il is following, Gi-hun does not care.

They all line up and collect their meals – milk and bread like he’d correctly predicted – before returning to their seats. Gi-hun’s not hungry, so he places his food down to the side and stares out into the distance in thought. Young-il sits down next to him but Gi-hun doesn’t startle this time, seeing as they’d sat like this in his past life, shoes touching and shoulders a fraction of an inch apart.

Except, it’s not a fraction of an inch this time. It’s none.

Young-il takes a seat and sidles over, lining the sides of their bodies up so Gi-hun can feel the heat of the other man seeping through his clothing. It’s like a burn, he immediately thinks. Like touching a pan of boiling water with your bare hands or catching your fingers on the flame of your lighter as you try to light a cigarette. Gi-hun almost descends into panic as he drowns in the alarming sensation, but the nature of the situation is so ridiculous that quickly, confusion takes centre stage in his mind instead.

What the fuck is going on?

He can’t think of any reason Young-il would need to be making this much physical contact with him. Maybe, it was part of his plan to gain Gi-hun’s trust? Maybe, Young-il was trying to lure him into a false sense of security he’d then rip it away, incising Gi-hun’s faith in the people around him indelibly – a way to say: ‘see, you can’t trust anyone anymore’ without words. Maybe, Young-il thinks that lesson, that irreparable damage, is worth getting this close to inflict.  

But that doesn’t make any sense.

Young-il had managed that in his past life, without going to these lengths. He’d caused more than enough pain, and had barely lifted a finger to do so.

“Brother!”

Gi-hun looks to his right at Dae-ho, who’s shouting at someone standing nearby, underneath a bedframe. It’s Jung-bae – Gi-hun recognises the back of the man’s head, ducked in shame. The man doesn’t respond so Dae-ho shouts again, addressing him by name as if that’s the problem.

“Brother Jung-bae!”

Still nothing. Dae-ho sighs and says something under his breath. The younger man puts the carton of milk he’s holding down and gets up, walking over to confront Jung-bae more directly.  

Gi-hun doesn’t look away, watching as Dae-ho says something to the man sitting down. That’s all he gets to see however, because all of a sudden, a face is rudely entering his field of vision. It’s Young-il, because of course it is, leaning forward to force Gi-hun to look at him, instead of the interaction happening a few metres away. Gi-hun frowns, irritated, but the other man doesn’t seem to get the hint.

“Not hungry?” Young-il speaks kindly, feigning concern. Gi-hun fights the urge to roll his eyes. He turns his head away, breaking eye contact, but Young-il keeps talking to the side of his head.

“You should really eat, Gi-hun. You need the energy.” Gi-hun doesn’t respond to that, which is probably childish, but he’s really not in the mood to deal with Young-il right now. He understands that he needs to play nice and gain the other man’s trust, but there’s only so much Gi-hun can take in one day. In fact, he thinks he exceeded his ‘Young-il interaction limit’ hours ago.

It’s a shame that the man himself doesn’t seem to register that.

Luckily, Dae-ho returns with Jung-bae a few seconds later, which stops Young-il from trying to get his attention again. With his friend standing in front of him once more, Gi-hun doesn’t feel the same frustration as he had last time, in his previous life. Instead, he feels so exhausted.

“I’m sorry.” His friend sounds meek, timid like a mouse. Gi-hun hates it. He hates how this place takes everything he thinks he understands and turns them all into things he doesn’t recognise.

“Jun-hee, Young-il. I’m sorry.” Young-il doesn’t look up from the bread he’s picking away at. Jun-hee turns her head to the side to gaze out into the room. Jung-bae shifts around on his feet, nervous, then takes a step forward.

“Gi-hun, I’m sorry.” Gi-hun doesn’t lift his head up, letting the words of his friend wash over him instead. He finds the apology doesn’t sting as much as it had in first life – probably because he knew it was coming this time. Despite this, there’s still something about it that stirs up an overwhelming emotion in his feeble chest, dark and unavoidable. Regret.

Jung-bae shouldn’t even be here in the first place. He had ended up in this hellhole because Gi-hun had failed him as a friend – had cut him off in favour of spending all of his time and attention on finding the Salesman, rather than making sure Jung-bae hadn’t fallen into as much debt as he had. Gi-hun had won plenty of money, in fact, he could have given half of it to his friend and still have had far too much to spare.

Gi-hun could have – he should have – but blinded by ambition, the idea hadn’t crossed his mind.

“I borrowed some emergency cash and the creditors are harassing my ex-wife and kid. If I play one more game, I think I’ll be able to settle my debt. So-” Jung-bae starts to ramble, desperately looking for a justification for his decision. Luckily, before his friend’s mouth can run him into an even deeper pit of guilt, a voice cuts him off.

“Jung-bae.” The pitch of Young-il’s voice is low, scolding, and before he can supress it, a shiver runs up Gi-hun’s spine. In front of him, Jung-bae looks down at his feet guiltily like a child being told off by his parents. Young-il carries on, ignoring the man’s discomfort.

“You of all people shouldn’t have done it. It’s not twice as righteous.”

What would you know about righteousness? Gi-hun wonders if, when Young-il spews all these virtuous takes, he actually starts to believe any of them.

Next to him, Young-il sighs and shifts his arm around, readjusting its position slightly. The action jostles Gi-hun around too and at this, he sees Jung-bae’s eyes instantly shoot down to the point of contact, like a poacher honing in on their target. His friend frowns, suddenly distracted, even as Young-il continues his speech.

“But, looking at the results, even if you had voted against, we still would have been outvoted.” Jung-bae’s snaps his eyes up to meet Gi-hun’s own. Helplessly, Gi-hun holds eye contact, hoping he looks more relaxed than he feels. Then-

“Gi-hun, I need to talk to you.”

Ah, here we go.

Gi-hun nods slowly, agreeing though every part of him screams in protest. This conversation was inevitable, so it would be best to get it out of the way now, lest the tension fester further. He braces his hands on his legs, preparing to stand up, but he’s stopped when a warm hand wraps around his bicep.

He jolts, turning his head to the side to come face-to-face with Young-il. How many times were they going to do this today?

“Gi-hun.” The word flies out of the other man’s mouth, almost too fast. Young-il’s eyes scour every inch of Gi-hun’s face thoroughly, like he’s looking for something in particular that Gi-hun can’t for the life of him discern. Young-il finds it, or maybe he doesn’t – it doesn’t matter because soon enough, the man is parting his lips to speak.

Gi-hun doesn’t think anything could have prepared him for the string of words leaves them.

“You shouldn’t go with him.” Gi-hun’s eyes widen, hardly able to process the sentence. He thinks it would have been less surprising if Young-il had revealed himself as the Frontman, rather than whatever this is. At least then, Young-il would be acting normal. At least then, Gi-hun might know how to react.

“What?” He says dumbly, unable to think of anything more eloquent. It feels like his mind has slowed to a stop, jammed by the levels of confusion flooding through it. All he can do is keep staring at the man in front of him – the infuriating, puzzling face that he’s stared at too many times over the course of both his lives. Frustration takes over Young-il’s expression, like Gi-hun’s the one that’s not making any sense.

“You-“

“Hey, don’t listen to him man. Come on.” Gi-hun looks over to his friend – the means to a liberating escape from this awkward situation he’s been dragged into. Jung-bae steps forward, reaching for his arm and, like it’s more than just an outstretched hand, Gi-hun rushes to his feet.

He stumbles towards his friend and grasps the sleeve of his jacket tightly. His friend jolts in surprise, but in the end, lets Gi-hun pull him along without much fuss.

He flees a tad too eagerly, nearly losing his balance a couple of times as he makes his way down the steps, not unlike how a newborn fawn may stumble as it gets used to the discovery of having legs. The bright, surgical lights of the room shine down like a spotlight and their intensity make every part of him feel exposed in a way he’s not used to.

The whole descent, he feels eyes digging into the back of his head, boring a hole that burns. The sensation doesn’t stop, even once he and Jung-bae make it down to the floor.

Great. From one interrogation, to another. When will I catch a break?

Chapter Text

“Woah, slow down!”

Gi-hun does, but only once they’ve finally reached the large open area of floor in the middle of the room. People are more drawn to the beds around the side so it’s almost fully deserted, apart from the occasional person walking across every now and then. Gi-hun would have preferred somewhere more secluded, but they’re not in the kind of place that grants that kind of privacy.

Gi-hun lets go and Jung-bae immediately keels over, planting his hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

“Shit man, you move fast when you want to-“ Gi-hun feels bad so he steps closer, planting a hand on his friend’s shoulder comfortingly. When Jung-bae eventually straightens up again, Gi-hun only takes one small step backwards. He doesn’t want them to be shouting across the room to each other, especially for the kind of conversation they’re about to have.

“Sorry. What did you want to talk about?” He decides to play dumb, maybe still hoping there’s a chance he can inch out of the firing line of his friend’s suspicion. Jung-bae scoffs and places his hands on his hips before replying.

“I want to know what’s really going on.” No such luck. Gi-hun decides to just take the bullet and ask the damning question.

“What do you mean?” Jung-bae frowns, before lifting a hand up and poking a finger into Gi-hun’s chest. Gi-hun scowls, offended, and leans backwards. The other man doesn’t lower his hand.

“You.” His friend rips his finger away and throws it out to the left, into the large expanse of the room next to them. Gi-hun already as a feeling he knows where – or rather, who – Jung-bae is gesturing at without having to look himself, but he follows his friend’s gaze anyway out of courtesy. He promptly winces, suspicions confirmed.

“-and him. What’s the deal?” Young-il stares at the two of them from across the room, face as blank as ever. It’s unnerving, like watching a sniper point their rifle at you and knowing they’re more than capable of making the shot. Gi-hun can’t tell who Young-il’s aiming at, but it doesn’t really matter right now. He turns back to focus on his friend, a denial rolling off his tongue easily.

“It’s nothing.” Jung-bae barks out a laugh then gestures to him in frustration, rebutting boldly.

“Like fuck it’s nothing! You’re all over each other!” Gi-hun eyes go wide and he almost chokes on his spit in shock. He didn’t think Jung-bae was going to say it. He rushes to defend himself, feeling red-hot embarrassment warm his cheeks.

“We’re not all over each other-“ As he says this, his voice wavers slightly like he doesn’t believe his own words. Jung-bae catches this – senses blood in the water like a shark – and strikes.

“Yes! Yes you are! You can’t keep your hands to yourselves-“ Gi-hun didn’t think his eyes could widen any further, but he’s proven wrong. He gapes, frozen in shock, before saying the only thing his mind can conjure up at such an absurd statement:

“Excuse me?” Jung-bae ignores him, pressing on like Gi-hun hadn’t said anything.

“-and I’m beginning to think there’s something you’re not telling me.” Suddenly, Gi-hun wished he had just listened to Young-il and stayed put on the steps. He takes a step backwards, making a move to walk away.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” Jung-bae just closes the distance Gi-hun was trying to create in one long stride as he replies, voice rising a notch.

“Why not? I’m not judging you, well I am, but not like that.” Gi-hun wants to laugh. Is that what Jung-bae thinks this is? This wasn’t a cute little romcom Eun-ji used to watch back when they married – this was reality. Even if there was any truth to his friend’s assumption, it would be hard to worried about Young-il’s gender, not when there was something else that eclipsed that issue entirely.

Jung-bae sighs – less frustrated, more worried.

“You can talk to me, Gi-hun.” No, Gi-hun can’t. He can’t, because what would he say? ‘By the way, Young-il – yes, the man sitting right over there – is actually the person in charge of this place. And oh yeah, did I mention, I’ve done this before? I won all that money and I watched four hundred and fifty-five people fucking die for it.’

It sounds downright ridiculous, even to him. He tells Jung-bae as much, in the only way he can.

“It’s complicated.” Jung-bae looks at him like he doesn’t believe him. Gi-hun has lost count of the number of times his friend has looked at him like that so far, and they’ve only been here two days.

“Well, try to make it… less complicated.”

God, I wish it was that easy.

“I don’t think I can.” He’s being honest. The past few years – nay, decades – of his life has just been one long series of complications: falling into all that debt, the divorce, the games, losing Sang-woo, losing his mother. If someone put a gun to Gi-hun’s head and asked him to name one thing that has gone right in his life recently, the gun would probably go off.

Trying to fit all that pain, all that loss, into a few words would be too hard.

Jung-bae stares at him for a long moment, like if he looks long enough, Gi-hun will just give in and tell him everything. Gi-hun doesn’t meet his eye because if he does, he thinks he might.

The silence drags on, an agonizing period of silence that gradually eats away at what remains of Gi-hun’s composure. Eventually, Jung-bae reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder – a firm, familiar weight drawing memories to the surface of his mind that he hasn’t looked back on for so long. The first thing he thinks of is Dragon Motors, sixteen years of working side-by-side with his friend, hunched over cars for hours at a time.

The last thing he thinks of is the strike, a dead body curled up on the floor, unmoving.

“When we get out of here, I’m taking you out for a drink, just like old times. You used to tell me everything back then.” His friend’s voice is nostalgic, filled with longing for something that no longer exists. Gi-hun feels like he’s responsible for that, so he apologises.  

“I’m sorry.” He is. He’s sorry that this awful thing came between them; pushed them apart like it had any right to. If he could go further back in time, he wouldn’t let it. Jung-bae lifts his other hand up to clutch his other shoulder before shaking his head.

“No. It’s not your fault. We changed.” Jung-bae tilts his head to the side, then he rephrases, sounding a little sadder.

“You changed. Went off and became stronger than me, eh? I hardly recognise you.” Gi-hun feels sick. Suddenly, he wishes they could go back to talking about him and Young-il like they had been a few minutes ago. The embarrassment of that had been so much more bearable than the awful new emotion building in his chest. It burns – a pain worse than the one still emanating from the side of his face.

The next question is hard to push into the air between them, but he’s too curious to not ask.

“Is that a bad thing?” Instantly, Jung-bae panics, gripping onto his shoulder more tightly as he backtracks quickly.

“No, of course not. We were stupid and drunk back then. You’re wiser now, and more sober, as far as I can tell.” Gi-hun doesn’t respond to that. Only one of those things is true, but he can’t explain that to Jung-bae without telling the man more than he needs to know.

Jung-bae must take the silence as reply of its own because his friend speaks again, a confession that cleaves Gi-hun like a knife.

“I’ve missed you, Gi-hun. When you stopped coming around, I thought something might have happened to you.” Jung-bae pauses, like he’s deliberating if he should continue. He does, much more quietly than before.

“I thought you might have gotten too unhappy.” The metaphorical knife buries deeper – meets his beating heart and slices through it.

At once, Gi-hun remembers the shadows of a tentative idea plaguing empty thoughts – creeping under his skin and making a home there, in the far depths of his mind. He remembers gruelling, sleepless nights spent looking up at a blank ceiling, a vast nothingness that made the perfect canvas for his palette of misery. He remembers thinking about an end to the interminable pain – an easy, simple way to silence the burning ache in the hollow cavern of his chest for good.

Luckily, in the end, he could never do it. There simply was no time to get ‘too unhappy’. Gi-hun still had a job to do – a purpose he needed to fulfil – and that would always take priority, no matter how much the shadows pushed and pulled at his buried urges. Of course, it had still been difficult. One of the greatest challenges of his life was pulling himself back from that ledge, when there was no one to help him do so. He had managed it, but only barely.

“Oh.” Gi-hun replies, too stunned to say anything else. Jung-bae breathes out a laugh, but there’s no humour to it. Gi-hun can hear the worry in the short sound – the years of concern his closest friend has harboured for his well-being. For the first time since he’d died at the Frontman’s feet in his past life, tears collect in Gi-hun’s eyes. They sting as he tries to blink them away.

“Yeah, oh.” Jung-bae slides his hands down, along his arms and down to Gi-hun’s own palms. He grasps them, like he did when they first met each other again, and tries to dissipate the heavy emotion that has settled between them in the only way he knows how.

“Hey, this place is a complete shit-hole, but it’s not so bad when we’re together, right?” It works, because it’s Jung-bae and he’s everything that Gi-hun remembers him to be. Even a place like this can’t change that. He sees now how stupid he’d been for ever thinking it had.

Swiftly, Gi-hun untangles his hands from Jung-bae’s and curls one of them into a fist. As lightly as possible, he pushes it into one of his friend’s shoulders, shoving him back playfully.

“Shut up.” He answers as he pushes, finally finding his voice again. His friend stumbles back as a genuine laugh erupts from his mouth, loud enough to reach the far corners of the room.

Speaking of far corners of the room-

“He’s a bit creepy, isn’t he?” Jung-bae whispers into his ear, like if he forgoes the dramatics, Young-il might miraculously hear from all the way across the room. The man in question is still staring, stock-still, and Jung-bae’s right – it is a little creepy. Gi-hun has no doubt that there’s something to be deciphered in an expression like that, but for once, he’s too far away to do so.

Gi-hun thinks he needs a moment alone, before he deals with all of that.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” Jung-bae nods and steps away from him.

“Okay man, I’ll head back.” His friend starts to walk away and Gi-hun watches him go for a second, before turning around and making his way over to the door to the right of the main entrance. He sighs and opens his mouth when he gets there, preparing for the argument that’s about to ensue. From what he’s seen, the guards are reluctant to let anyone in for any reason. Gi-hun remembers countless occasions of being roused from slumber, especially during his very first time here, to the sound of people begging to go to the bathroom. Only some of them had succeeded.

“Hey-“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because all of a sudden, a clunk sounds through the air. A few seconds later, the door opens to reveal a guard who then steps back, letting Gi-hun enter without any kind of resistance. Weird.

He’s not going to complain. He’ll take the small victories he can get in this place.

Slowly, he steps inside. The guard leads him down the corridor, towards the room at the end of the passage which Gi-hun knows to be the bathroom by now. The only sound that fills the silence as they walk is the squeak of his own shoes meeting the ground, accompanied by the heavier, more pronounced rhythm of the guard’s footsteps ahead of him. Gi-hun looks around, taking note of a metal door halfway down the hall. It looks impossible to break down, which is a shame, seeing as it must lead further into the facility.  

Once he finally makes it to the bathroom itself, Gi-hun rushes inside without further preamble, letting the door slam shut behind him. He’s never liked the soldiers – especially the ones that don’t speak.   

Happy to be alone, he makes his way over to the line of sinks along one side of the room and steps towards one of them, bringing his hands out to grip the edge. The porcelain feels cold, much like the rest of the room, but Gi-hun finds he doesn’t hate it. He looks up, into the mirror that sits upon the wall, and a face stares back. It’s his own – but Gi-hun wishes it wasn’t.

He looks tired, to put it simply – like what someone would conjure up in their mind if they were to think of a person who hasn’t slept in a week. Funnily enough, it’s almost true. He hadn’t slept during the two nights before the rebellion, though not for a lack of trying. Rather, he’d been kept awake by the painful familiarity of the same games he’d experienced four years prior – dozens of supressed memories repeating over and over again in his head like a broken record, stuck on the same harrowing beat.

He hadn’t slept last night either, which is no surprise. His mind had been far too occupied with processing the absurdity of his new situation, which was no easy feat.

If Gi-hun were to wager a guess, he suspects tonight will be no different. That would make five nights without rest, which isn’t great. Technically, his body has only been subjected to one night of sleeplessness, seeing as his body must have returned to the state it was in when he originally woke up. Thankfully, this means his physical performance won’t be affected which will allow him to push through the next few games without risk of slipping up due to sleep deprivation. Mental performance, on the other hand…

Gi-hun rips his eyes away from his reflection, uncomfortable with who meets his eye.

He turns on the tap and places his fingers into the sink, letting the freezing-cold water rush between the gaps in his fingers. It’s numbing in a pleasant kind of way. Suddenly, Gi-hun’s overcome with the urge to do stick his whole head under the tap and submit to the sensation completely. He can’t, so instead he does the next best thing, cupping his hands and letting the water fill his palms. Slowly, he leans over the white porcelain and brings the cold liquid up to face, gasping as his eyes fall closed.

He splashes his face until the pleasant nip of the water morphs into a sharp pain that isn’t so refreshing. His hands hurt, deprived of blood as the vessels in them constrict, so he pulls them away and with numb fingers, turns off the tap. Finally, he leans back again, breathing loudly into the silence of the room.

As he looks around at the quiet space, Gi-hun remembers where he is. Shit, no towels.

Sighing, he fumbles to reach for the zipper of his jacket and tugs it down after a few unsuccessful tries at getting a decent hold on the small piece of metal. He shrugs the item of clothing off, leaving him in his t-shirt, and brings the fabric up to his face to dry the wet skin there.

Suddenly, there’s a flurry of noise to his left. The door.

Gi-hun pulls his face out of his jacket and stares, horrified, as the door to the bathroom swings open. Standing there in the entrance only a few metres away, is a man. It’s Young-il, of course, because who else would it be? Who else would follow him here and shamelessly interrupt a vulnerable moment that he’d been trying to steal for himself? Sometimes, it feels like Young-il haunts him in every conceivable way – a ghost that doesn’t know how to leave him be.

The other man steps fully into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. He doesn’t speak, not straight away, but instead moves to stand in front of the sink next to Gi-hun, resting his hip against the edge.

Young-il must be restless, because he only waits a few seconds before breaking the silence.

“Are you alright?” His voice is low, considerate of the size of the room and the small distance between them. Gi-hun frowns and stares down at the damp jacket in his hands. The poor piece of clothing is drenched by the water from his hands and face, making it unwearable for the time being. It’s inconvenient, seeing as the main room gets quite cold at night and the bed covers have always been infuriatingly thin.

He thinks about Young-il’s words and tries not to laugh. Does it look like he’s alright? Young-il of all people shouldn’t need to ask that question, unless Gi-hun’s just been hallucinating whenever he’s turned his head and seen the man already looking his way over the past couple of days.

When Gi-hun finally speaks, finding his voice somewhere in the depths of his throat, he doesn’t answer honestly. Young-il has done nothing to deserve the truth from his lips.

“Oh. I’m fine.” He pauses, then tacks on politely: “Thanks.” Young-il doesn’t like that, if the sudden pinch that forms between his eyebrows is any indication. He replies, a sharp edge to his voice.

“No need to be so rude, Gi-hun. I’m just worried, that’s all.” Gi-hun thinks the man is more frustrated by his lack of honesty rather than his tone, but he decides not to call him out on it. Idly, he wonders why Young-il is even here to begin with. The man must have some motivation for coming here, and Gi-hun’s fairly certain it’s not because he’s worried.

Gi-hun asks, because he’s very confused and Young-il is puzzle that he can’t solve, no matter what tactics he employs.

“About what?” Gi-hun fights to make his voice sound indifferent, uncaring. Young-il pauses, then takes a step closer, pushing off the sink to stand next to him. When the man speaks, he drawls his words out slowly, like he’s broaching a delicate subject.

“You and Jung-bae are close. How long have you known each other?” Gi-hun falters, thrown off by the abrupt change of topic. Young-il doesn’t elaborate, just waits patiently for a reply like he thinks if he sits around long enough, he’ll get one.

What did Jung-bae have to do with anything? Is it because Young-il had watched them while they were talking to each other? In that case, Young-il must have seen the exchange end amicably, showing there was no bad blood between them.  

You know what? If Young-il wants answers, he can have them.

“We worked together for sixteen years at a car factory. Now… we’re just friends.” Young-il’s face does a funny thing as he speaks, something Gi-hun has never seen before. The man’s face twitches like how water ripples, the stillness of a calm surface broken so easily. It’s fascinating – an addicting sight Gi-hun wants to see more of.

“Why do you ask?” Gi-hun adds. At this, Young-il stares at him for a long moment. Then, he sighs and replies in a way that suggests he’s come to terms with the fact he won’t be getting the answer he’s looking for.

“Just curious. He seems to frustrate you.” At the comment, Gi-hun feels a sharp spike of anger rear its head – vicious and hot. Who did Young-il think he was, poking his head into Gi-hun’s personal relationships and making baseless assumptions? He isn’t sure exactly what Young-il is trying to imply but he’s completely off the mark.

“I’ve fallen out with Jung-bae countless times in the past. We always make up.” He tries not to sound angry, but it’s difficult. Young-il looks off the side, a quiet emotion stirring under the mask of apathy he thinks hides it. Slowly, the man lifts his arms up and crosses them across his chest.

Instantly, Gi-hun eyes are drawn down to the backs of the other man’s hands. Lines of scratch marks still adorn the flesh, angry and red in a way that’s difficult to ignore. The wounds aren’t bleeding anymore but they’re still drenched in dried blood that makes it seem like they are. Young-il doesn’t seem to care – doesn’t seem to realise – and Gi-hun can’t help but wonder why.

His frustration fades as quickly as it came, curiosity stepping up to take its place. 

Emboldened by the silence that has settled between them, Gi-hun throws the bundle of fabric in his hands into a nearby sink. He approaches Young-il in one short stride and grasps the man’s wrist swiftly, holding it up so he can get a better look at the scratches. The other man snaps his head back to him, shocked, then goes dead still, wordlessly allowing the inspection.

Gi-hun traces a finger up from the man’s wrist and hovers it over the reddened skin. Daring, he brushes a digit over a particularly bad scrape and hears the man in front of him wince in pain. So, they do still hurt.

It seems like most of the redness is from dried blood, rather than skin being torn away. That’s easy to fix in a bathroom with running water.

He pulls the limp wrist down into the bowl of the sink with one hand and reaches for the tap with the other. Remembering his own experience, Gi-hun looks over his shoulder at the man behind him and offers up a semblance of warning.  

“It’s cold.” Young-il just stares, stupefied, like he can’t hear him. Gi-hun turns back to the sink, then without hesitation, tugs the hand under the stream of water.

Young-il yelps, a sound Gi-hun can’t help but savour, but the man doesn’t rip his hand away. Gi-hun takes that as permission to do what he wants, so he does just that. He grasps Young-il’s hand firmly, then starts to brush his own fingers across the back of it, cleaning away the red stains as carefully as possible.

Behind him, Young-il’s breathing becomes audibly heavier, likely from the pain of having his cuts agitated, along with the temperature of the water. Unfortunately, there’s just no way to make the experience less excruciating in their current circumstance, though in Gi-hun’s defence, he’s trying his best to avoid the scratches that look the nastiest, which must be helping slightly. 

He’s so focused on the task in fact, that he almost jumps when Young-il’s other hand comes up to grip his shoulder, bunching into the fabric of his thin t-shirt tightly. From the way the two of them are positioned, the action leaves Gi-hun completely boxed in by the man behind him, though he seems to be the only one who realises this.

In hindsight, this is entirely his fault.

Gi-hun attempts to ignore the sudden proximity, but it’s difficult, especially when Young-il has the nerve to rest his fucking forehead on him. The sudden weight on his back makes his heart rate pick up in panic – racing where it had once rested calmly in his chest a few minutes prior, undisturbed by the presence of the man behind him. Subconsciously, Gi-hun grips the hand he’s holding tighter as he grows more and more anxious. Young-il hisses in pain but this time, he’s so close that the noise is practically deafening.

“Sorry.” Gi-hun blurts out, embarrassed. The only reply he gets is the tightening of a fist, squeezing his shoulder almost painfully. Young-il’s doesn’t seem angry, but it’s hard to say when he can’t see the man’s face. In any case, he lets Gi-hun keep going, so he can’t be that unhappy.

Once Gi-hun’s done, he pulls it out of the sink and holds it up to examine the results. The skin looks cleaner, if a little red from the icy temperature of the water it was just subjected to. He nods, satisfied. Young-il sees this and peers over his shoulder, staring at the back of his hand in wonder as if Gi-hun’s eradicated the scratches entirely.

“Oh. Thank you.” Gi-hun looks over his shoulder and meets Young-il’s eyes. The other man smiles – a gentle, soft thing – and suddenly, with an awful rush of longing, Gi-hun wishes it was real. He wishes the man could smile at him like that and mean it, for the tug of those lips to be genuine, not a ruse meant solely to be the genesis of his ruin. Gi-hun wants with such potency, that he suddenly feels sick.

It takes him a minute to find the strength to speak again, but Young-il doesn’t seem to care. The man just stares at him like he always does – like he could do so for the rest of his life and never get bored.

“Give me your other hand.” Young-il does, without hesitation. After readjusting their positions slightly, Gi-hun starts to repeat the process again for the next hand.

This time, Young-il traces his fingers along Gi-hun’s arm as he works away, drawing indecipherable patterns along the stretch of exposed skin. The man’s fingers have yet to warm up, so Gi-hun shivers as the digits glide across his bare skin, a light touch so uncharacteristically gentle for the man it belongs to. It feels dangerous, like hanging in the jaw of an apex predator. Young-il laughs lightly at his reaction, amused, and keeps tracing.

That jaw will bite down at some point. It’s in a predator’s nature.

The pain must not be so bad this time around, because Young-il becomes more talkative as well. The man asks simple questions, for the most part – creating idle conversation to fill a silence that was already perfectly comfortable, but Gi-hun doesn’t mind. He replies, seeing as there’s no discernible malice behind the curiosity for once.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

“No.” Silence. Then-

“Is it the beds?” Gi-hun bites back a laugh. It’s a stupid question, but that seems to be becoming Young-il’s forte.

“No.”

“Is it the-“

“Do you get nightmares, Young-il?” The man goes quiet again, no doubt considering the question. Gi-hun doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. He’s so sick of lies, he decides. Sick of things he doesn’t understand.

“I do. Even when I’m tired, the fear of them keeps me up.” He stares down at his own hands. By now, they’ve have reached the point where they don’t feel cold. Instead, they feel hot, like he’s dipping them into a river of scalding magma and holding them there to burn to a crisp.

Gi-hun’s tongue feels loose, so he keeps talking, forgetting who exactly looms over his shoulder.

“I don’t want to see it happen again.” It doesn’t make sense, but it’s the truth and it feels nice to say it out loud – to finally tell someone. He’s not expecting a reply but he gets one anyway.

“I understand.” Young-il’s voice is low, so quiet that the stillness of the room almost swallows it up. Gi-hun tenses, pausing in his movements.

No, you don’t. You couldn’t begin to fathom what I’ve been through.

Disappointment fills him at the lie, an emotion that makes his whole body feel heavier. He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he really thinks about it. Silence, maybe. Hell, even laughter. Gi-hun deliberately doesn’t look over his shoulder at Young-il’s expression, too cautious – too scared – of the mocking amusement he’s bound to see.

When Gi-hun’s done washing all the blood away, he reaches over to turn off the tap. Young-il finally pulls back to take a look at his clean hand, and Gi-hun uses the opportunity to pick up his discarded jacket. He turns back around and holds it out to Young-il in the small space between their bodies.

“Here, use this.” The man takes it and dries off his hand, then looks down at the jacket and frowns.

“You can’t wear this now. It’s too wet.” Gi-hun stares at him for a second, before letting out a short exhale of amusement. Young-il looks so different – out of a place – that it’s comical. The harsh lights from above shine down on him, revealing a redness to his cheeks, and the blankness to his expression has been abandoned, leaving behind a beautiful rawness that Gi-hun can’t look away from. He really doesn’t know how Young-il does it. Gi-hun can’t blame himself for being fooled last time, if this is what he’d been up against.

Gi-hun reaches forward and pats the man on the shoulder, before moving towards the door. He doesn’t get far before a cold hand is grasping his arm, stopping him from taking another step.

He looks back at Young-il, expectant.

“Take mine.” Gi-hun’s mouth goes dry. Oh.

All of a sudden, his mind goes blank. He tries his hardest to think of something, anything, to say but every word gets stuck in his throat, clogging the tight passageway. Young-il takes advantage of his speechlessness and throws Gi-hun’s jacket into the sink next to him before unzipping his own deftly. He shrugs the piece of clothing off quickly and holds it out Gi-hun, expecting him to take it without question.

Gi-hun does, because he can’t find the words to ask any, and because he can tell it would be fruitless to try and fight this. Young-il smiles, pleased at the lack of resistance, before picking up the waterlogged jacket from the sink.

The man steps past Gi-hun’s frozen from in a couple of strides and opens the door, but he doesn’t go through it straight away. No, the fucking bastard has the nerve to turn around and hold it open for him. Talk about trying too hard.

What are you hoping to achieve with this, Young-il?

Gi-hun exits the bathroom feeling more conflicted and woefully confused than when he entered, which wasn’t the plan.

The whole way back to the dormitory, a set of footsteps echoes his own.

Chapter Text

All around In-ho, the low hum of voices and distant movement fills the air.

He lies in bed, starting up at the inky frame above him. The pillow underneath his head feels like a brick and the sheets do little for the chill that is slowly creeping into the room, making goosebumps erupt across his skin. People continue to shuffle about around him, making the most of the final minutes of the day to confer with each quietly. Every now and then, someone jogs up the stairs next to him.

Everything is just like he remembers, even down to small details like these. It’s funny how he’d only spent six days in this place and yet, the memories he’d created here haunt him even now, almost a decade later. He’s tried so hard to forget about those days. For a while, for years, he’s managed to do just that, almost effortlessly.

But, wearing the tracksuit again makes it too difficult. Everything is a trigger, even the things he could have never expected to be. Without the distance of a screen to nullify their impact, it leaves him completely exposed.

His eyes fall closed for a moment, dousing his vision in complete darkness. He can still hear everything happening around him. To his right, he can make out the sound of two people walking down the stairs, engaged in a heated conversation. He doesn’t bother to listen, uninterested, and soon enough their voices fade away, joining the general murmur of the room.

In-ho relaxes his body and opens his eyes again.

Before he can think any better of it, he reaches up to touch the metal above him, provoked by an undiscernible emotion stirring in him. It’s cold underneath the tips of his fingers. He brushes his knuckles against the smooth surface as the sensation brings lighter memories to the front of his mind, replacing the weightiness of old ones.

He thinks of a hand grabbing his wrist and boldly tugging it under a stream of freezing cold water. He thinks about how Gi-hun must have remembered their brief conversation from earlier during the pentathlon – how he must have looked down at the wounds and wanted to do something to help. Gi-hun wanted to help him.

He wants to help Young-il. Don’t get confused.

In-ho can’t bring himself to care – all that matters is that his plan is working. Clearly, Gi-hun trusts Young-il. Trusts him so much that he’s happy to turn his back to In-ho as he washes the blood away from Young-il’s hands with a level of care that says all the things Gi-hun would never admit out loud. He doesn’t need to, In-ho understands.

(Maybe, when Gi-hun had pulled away from him earlier during Six Legs, In-ho had just been reading the situation wrong entirely. Perhaps, Gi-hun was just guilty their team had lived, and the other hadn’t. He’d been lashing out – regretting the celebration he and Young-il had shared together seconds prior. It seems likely, much more so than the alternative.)

However, In-ho is too cautious to believe he has the other man fully in his palm yet. There’s still more work to be done so that the knife In-ho will plunge into his back won’t just hurt – it will be the most agonizing thing Gi-hun has ever experienced.

He’s decided against seeking out Gi-hun tonight. They’ve talked plenty today and a bit of distance will do him good, he thinks. It’s not what In-ho wants, but his short excursion earlier had shown him that he was quickly losing sight of his original goal and he couldn’t let that happen. Once he’s in control again, he can focus on fracturing Gi-hun’s mind – his hope – again, just like he has always intended to.

Yes, this period of respite is for the better.

Slowly, he lowers his hand again. It falls onto his body where his other already sits, grasping a slightly soggy jacket laid across his chest. He uses both hands to lift the green fabric up to his face, inhaling deeply. It smells damp mostly, like a wet cat fresh in from the rain, but underneath that, he can make out a familiar scent.

He pulls the jacket closer, so his lips brush against a crease in the item of clothing.

Above him, he hears the sound of someone getting out of bed. The noise sounds far away, so it must be someone in one of the higher bunks. The person starts to gradually descend the steps, soft periodic thuds from their shoes getting louder as they get closer. In-ho listens to the methodical rhythm of the stranger’s footsteps as he tightens his hold on the jacket and reluctantly tugs it away from his face.

He wonders if Gi-hun will ever ask for it back. In-ho hopes he doesn’t. If he does, Gi-hun will give In-ho’s back in return.

Part of him hadn’t been expecting the man to actually put it on. Gi-hun had in the end, and In-ho couldn’t get enough of the sight of him, dressed up in his number so shamelessly. The other three had just stared in shock when Gi-hun had shrugged the jacket over his shoulders, wordlessly gaping at the digit on his chest that didn’t correspond with the man’s own. No one had spoken up. They hadn’t needed to because naturally, they understood perfectly.

Finally, In-ho had managed to attach part of himself to Gi-hun. Finally, he had found a way to tell everyone – tell Jung-bae – that him and Gi-hun had possessed a bond that surpassed anything the others could begin to dream of. They were all that mattered in this place. Anything else was unimportant – a dim light compared to the marvellous glow that was his and Gi-hun’s dichotomous connection.

Of course, In-ho would have loved to have shown this in a completely different way. He would have loved to have sunk his teeth straight into Gi-hun instead, leaving a mark that the man couldn’t take off whenever he wants like he could with a jacket. He had almost done just that, in the bathroom while Gi-hun was dutifully washing the blood off of his hands. It had been so difficult to resist, especially when the man had practically presented the juncture of his neck to him – a beautiful stretch of open space lit up by the bright lights from above.

That light had told In-ho to bite.

“Young-il?” In-ho startles, head snapping to the right. He meets a face peering into his bunk, staring down at him cautiously.

“Gi-hun-“ He prepares to sit up on his elbows but before he can, In-ho realises he’s still holding the man’s jacket. For a brief, fleeting moment he hopes that Gi-hun won’t notice. He hopes, foolishly, that the other man will get too distracted by his reason for being here and in doing so, In-ho will get a chance to subtly move the ball of fabric off of his chest and out of sight. 

In-ho has never been a very lucky man, so naturally, that's not what happens. Gi-hun’s eyes immediately dart down to the piece of clothing and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, shock evident.

In-ho doesn’t say anything. He tries his hardest to think of how Young-il would reply, finding it difficult to slip back into the persona after letting his guard down for the night. In the end, he doesn’t need to, because Gi-hun speaks first.

“I came here for my jacket.” The man’s voice carries uncertainty, like he’s not sure how he ended up at In-ho’s bed. Nevertheless, Gi-hun stares at the item in question for another long moment before dragging his eyes back up to In-ho’s face. In-ho feels stupid laying still, staring silently up at the other man like a deer caught in headlights, so he answers without thinking.

“Of course. Here-“ He thrusts the jacket towards Gi-hun with more vigour than he intends. The man doesn’t seem to mind, taking the green fabric in his hands and bowing lowly.

“Thank you, Young-il.” In-ho finally sits up on his elbows as best as he can in the small space and meets Gi-hun’s gaze properly. They hold the eye contact for a few seconds before In-ho’s eyes wander, coming to fall on the red X attached to the man’s chest instead. He’d pressed that button for Gi-hun. Strangely enough, he can’t tell if it had deepened the trust between them or not. Afterwards, when he’d gone to stand next to the Gi-hun, the other man had looked at In-ho like he didn’t recognise him.

His eyes travel down further, along the arms and past the sleeves.

All of a sudden, the only thing In-ho can think of is what he’d done mere minutes before that, wearing that very jacket. If Gi-hun knew, he’d be disgusted. It would ruin everything.

“Oh, you want this back, right? Give me a second-“ Gi-hun catches him staring and misinterprets. The man places his own jacket down on the bed to free up his hands and In-ho watches, devastated, as he starts to clumsily tug off the one he’s wearing. Suddenly, In-ho’s overcome with the urge to stop him – to reach out and drag Gi-hun down into the bed with him, where he couldn’t shrug off the jacket anymore. It would be brazen, but In-ho thinks it might work.

His fingers twitch, bunching into the thin sheets below him.

Gi-hun gets the jacket off far too quickly. He hands it over swiftly and In-ho can’t help but stare down at the wretched thing as it’s offered to him, glaring as if channelling all his frustration into the ball of fabric might make Gi-hun change his mind. It doesn’t work.

He places the jacket to the side where he’s vows to ignore it.

Gi-hun shifts around on his feet in hesitation in front of him. He glances off to the side, up at the stairs he came from, and In-ho doesn’t need to be able to read minds to tell what he’s thinking. This is where Gi-hun closes the conversation, if you could even call it that, to return to his own bed for the night. He’s going to leave In-ho here, all alone once more.

In-ho hadn’t been planning to seek the other man out himself but now he’s here, it feels like a waste to let him go. This time, Gi-hun has decided to come to him.

“Young-il.” Gi-hun loses his uncertainty remarkably quickly, expression becoming serious like he’s made some sort of decision. It’s so lovely when Gi-hun looks like that, all focused and determined. In-ho hums, encouraging the man to continue.

“Can I sit down?” The smile that tugs at In-ho’s lips is one of satisfaction. Oh, how glad he was to be wrong. He feels like a cat watching a mouse – his dinner – scamper up to him with wide, trusting eyes. It’s so easy.

“Yes, here.” In-ho shifts his whole body to the left side of the bed, leaving an area of space for Gi-hun to sit down. He stops short of asking the man to just join him under the covers: the beds are far too small to accomplish such a feat without tangling any of their limbs together. In-ho doesn’t think their friendship has reached that level yet. In the short time they have together, it probably never will.

He takes the thought and places it at the back of his mind anyway, reserving it for a later opportunity to indulge in his fantasies.

Gi-hun perches himself at the edge of the bed before looking over at In-ho, gaze brimming with a number of questions. The man frowns, an expression that twists the lines of his whole face, as he considers which one to begin with. In-ho feels excitement rush through him – a heady emotion he’s starting to get familiar with again – and his body leans closer in anticipation, ready to receive the other man’s scrutiny.

Any question Gi-hun has, In-ho will answer. Maybe not honestly, but that’s where Young-il comes in. Young-il can be moulded to be the say the exact things the man in front of him wants to hear.

“Why-“ Gi-hun pauses, taking a deep breath.

In-ho feels restlessness join his excitement, merging together to form an ugly emotion he’s always hated: desperation. It makes him want to reach forward and pick the sentences from Gi-hun’s very mouth himself, to forgo all this time spent balancing precariously on the ledge between words. It makes him ache to dig his fingers into the man’s brain to scoop up each and every stray thought – all wonderful and all, no doubt, worthy of reverence.

What would it feel like, to know someone like that? To know their every thought like each one is your own?

Gi-hun continues speaking after a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

“Why did you change your mind?” In-ho knows what he’s talking about without having to ask. It’s thrilling, understanding someone like that – being able to read the messages hidden between the words that leave their lips.

Was it like this once with his wife? An odd feeling spreads to each of his limbs when In-ho realises he can’t remember anymore. He focuses on evading Gi-hun’s question, hoping the sensation leaves.

“Shouldn’t you be asking why I’m here to begin with?” In-ho wonders if he opens his jaw, if the mouse will stroll right into it, oblivious to the sharpened teeth that line the cavernous space. He’s curious enough to ask – to see if Gi-hun will be reeled in when prompted.

“Will you tell me if I do?” Ah, In-ho was wrong. He forgot, Gi-hun is a timid little mouse – cautious of the jaw like any prey should be. No matter, he just needs a gentle hand to encourage him and luckily, that’s something Young-il excels at.

In-ho opens his mouth to answer, a white lie brimming on the tip of his tongue. He decides to tell part of the truth – that his wife is sick and needs urgent treatment so he’s here for the money to pay for it. Gi-hun doesn’t need to know that was almost a decade ago. He doesn’t need to know that there is no wife, not anymore.

“My wife is very sick. She-“

“-needs treatment to save her and you can’t afford it.” Gi-hun cuts him off before he can go on. In-ho is instantly stunned into silence, unable to take his eyes off the other man’s expression – the fire in a firm gaze and subtle sadness woven into a pair of furrowed eyebrows. When In-ho doesn’t make any move to speak again, the man at the edge of the bed starts to divulge a confession of his own.

“When I played four years ago, I came here for a reason like that. My mother had diabetes. She needed treatment and I… I had bet away most of our money on horses.” Gi-hun looks into his lap, unseeing.

“When I got out of here, she was gone.” In-ho doesn’t like this conversation anymore. It’s beginning to veer in a direction that he can’t predict and he finds he doesn’t like that very much. Grief paints Gi-hun’s face and suddenly, it’s far too familiar – too reminiscent of that which had painted his own a decade ago. In-ho can’t stand the sight so he whips his head away, blinking down at the bed sheets covering his legs instead. They’re so white, so blemish-less.

“Young-il?”

In-ho remembers sleeping in a bed like this all those years ago. He remembers the man he’d been when he had – a caring husband here for a noble reason, to save his wife and unborn child. For love.

He thinks of the man he is now, the cold unfeeling abyss of apathy he’s been consumed by. He’s not ashamed – these people deserve the lessons they will be taught in this place, just like he had – but for the first time, he wonders if things could have been different. He wonders if he was more like Gi-hun, more resilient to the sharp edges of his own hatred, if the ugly thing that had grown in him after he’d won wouldn’t have led him here.

All of a sudden, a warm hand wraps around his arm. He looks up at Gi-hun, leaning across the bed to grab him. Usually, In-ho would preen at the attention, offered up willingly by a man who so rarely initiated contact of such intimate nature. Maybe, a small part of In-ho – the greedy, hungry thing that lives deep inside his gut – does but it’s not the same kind of intense, encompassing feeling he’s used to. It’s distant, like something that doesn’t quite belong to him.

Because it doesn’t. He’s reaching for Young-il. He’s reaching for the man he thinks will help him get out of this place, not you.

“May I, uh-“ Cautiously, Gi-hun points to the gap In-ho left when he moved over. In-ho stares down at it and blinks. It’s not big, but Gi-hun could fit if he tried. The question in the other man’s gesture is clear – a request that In-ho wouldn’t ever think to deny. He nods.

Gi-hun climbs into the small space, releasing In-ho’s arm to do so. He sits down on top of the sheets, preventing any contact between the lower halves of their bodies, but their new position still leaves their shoulders pressed together. That pressure – the firmness of another body – grounds In-ho. It tethers him to the current moment, not the haunting memories of his experience here nine years ago. It stops him being dragged back to a hospital hallway, a credit card clutched in his palm, as he’s handed the worst news of his life in two swift blows.

Nine years.

Gi-hun doesn’t speak for a moment but this time, In-ho doesn’t mind. He likes how silence feels with Gi-hun – the way the man’s presence alone wraps around him like the warmth of a blanket, draped over his frozen form. Sharing silence is so different than enduring it alone, In-ho has come to realise. It’s less loud, but maybe that’s just because In-ho feels as though Gi-hun’s thoughts are always crossing the space between them, drowning out his own with ease.

It’s nice, this kind of gentle companionship. He can see why people crave it – why he had once chased after it himself.

Gi-hun breaks the silence eventually. The man speaks lowly, as if he’s handing over an admission that has never left his lips before now. In-ho lets himself savour the thought that it hasn’t – that the words from Gi-hun’s mouth are In-ho’s, and In-ho’s alone.

“I think, the worst part about it all is that I could’ve done something sooner to stop it from happening.” Gi-hun stares down at his crossed legs, a far off look in his eyes that suggests he’s retreated into his mind once more. In-ho doesn’t like that. He wants to drink up every whispered confession Gi-hun has to offer him, to be granted witness to the endless feast of emotions locked behind that shuttered expression. Trapped behind closed lips and a blank gaze, what In-ho truly craves is just out of reach.

It makes him itch.

He shifts, moving to grip Gi-hun’s bicep like the man had done to him a few minutes ago. It’s warm to the touch and it feels wonderful, bare skin that sets his hand alight with a fire that threatens to consume him. In-ho wants to feel more, to dip his fingers into the lake of heat that is the other man’s body and never pull them out again.

He struggles to form his next sentence, mouth thick with an abundance of words he’d rather say. When he does, he hardly recognises the sound of his own voice. This is because, of course, it isn’t. It’s Young-il’s, and each syllable drips with sickeningly-sweet kindness.

“You can’t blame yourself. You did what you could-.” Gi-hun viscerally reacts, whipping his head up to meet In-ho’s eyes. He loves this – the look that rips across the man’s face like the gash of a knife. Unfiltered emotion oozes from his features, as red and angry as blood.

Gi-hun laughs, but it’s cold and humourless.

“No. No, I didn’t. I should have pulled my life together years ago.” An abyss of self-loathing swirls in Gi-hun’s eyes – a torture In-ho feels singlehandedly responsible for. He wonders, with sick curiosity, whether the man has looked like this – a perfect picture of immutable despair – ever since In-ho had thrown his limp body out of the limo that day, onto the side of the street. Has Gi-hun smiled, beaming and genuine, since he’d had every shred of happiness ripped away from him? Has he laughed without seeing the faces of all who had died flash behind his eyelids, a constant reminder of his guilt?

In-ho glances down at the bags beneath the other man’s eyes, heavy from the weight of a sleepless night. He doesn’t think Gi-hun has smiled or laughed, at least not like he used to.

In-ho meets the man’s gaze once more and decides to half-heartedly offer up a pitiful attempt at comfort. There’s no effort behind it but that’s not the point. It’s about the ruse – the perception of care – more than anything.

“She was an old woman, Gi-hun.” It’s true. Background checks on each candidate had shown that Gi-hun’s mother was approaching the last of her years, and there simply wasn’t anything Gi-hun himself could have done about that. Perhaps, the woman still should have lived a little while longer – a few more dull years, not a handful of meagre weeks. A drastic decline in health, combined with a lack of immediate treatment had cut her time short, unfortunately.

Next to him, Gi-hun’s face crumples, folding in on itself in defeat. The fire in his expression burns out just as quick as it had ignited and In-ho finds it strange, watching Gi-hun surrender so easily from the mundanity of a few banal, civilly-exchanged words. Where was all of Gi-hun’s anger? Where was his bitterness? It must be somewhere, poised and waiting for an outlet.

But then, why can In-ho not find it?

In-ho scours the other man’s face but frustratingly, he can’t seem to grasp anything. Gi-hun’s just not the open book he used to be and In-ho, no matter how hard he tries, is unable to read him like he once could four years ago. It should be worrying but instead, the danger sends a sharp thrill of excitement rushing through him, accompanied with a tug of blinding arousal.

In-ho feels crazed – drunk and intoxicated by the man sitting next to him.

Gi-hun had been exquisitely fascinating before, when he had tried to sacrifice all the prize money in a pitiful attempt to save the life of his childhood friend. He’d been breathtaking, when In-ho had watched the final threads of joy bleed from his body, washed away by an onslaught of rain to leave the battered, beaten remains of a man who would never see that happiness again.

After that day, Gi-hun had left his life for four years. In that time, those pathetic remains had been swept away.

In-ho curses his inability to consider what four years of spite could do to a man. He hadn’t planned for the possibility that Gi-hun would supplant the man in the rain. He hadn’t accounted for the possibility that Gi-hun would come back so different, with a calculating and careful countenance that carried none of the naivety it used to.

Simply put, Gi-hun has changed.

This realisation should put In-ho off but, for some reason, it does the complete opposite. Strangely, it only draws him in further, consuming his rupturing sanity bit by bit like a drug. In-ho knows this little game he’s playing could destroy him – it might already be doing just that – but none of this would be as satisfying, if there was no risk. It would be so dull, if there was no danger to make the prize that much more worth it. In-ho’s addicted, he’s alive and he can’t pull away, back to his life of monotonous emptiness. In-ho wants this, so he will have it.

A small and diminishing part of him screams for him to hold on to the feeble remains of his rationality. A larger part of him – a more hungry, primal side of him – begs for the opposite. It wants to consume, to take, and In-ho wants to listen.

And what of your goals? Do they mean nothing to you anymore?

In the back of In-ho’s mind, discarded like they mean nothing, lie his ambitions. Warily, he reaches for them – drags them under the spotlight of his attention for him to analyse.

In-ho was here to fulfil two objectives. Firstly, and most mundanely, he needed to keep Gi-hun in line. In-ho couldn’t have the man trying to cut the games short – the VIPs demanded a show worth their money and it would always be In-ho’s job to make sure that’s exactly what they’d get. Sure, it would have been far easier to just dispose of Gi-hun entirely, however, that brings In-ho onto his second reason for entering the games as a player: Gi-hun could not die yet.

He had decided this quite some time ago, four years ago to be specific, staring down through a thick sheet of glass at a man drenched from head to toe with rain. Gi-hun had been kneeling over an unnervingly still body – the corpse of the player that should have won, at least according to the six men watching. He had looked a mess, a gorgeous star on the verge of collapse, and In-ho hadn’t been able to look away.

No one had placed bets on Gi-hun during that final game. One VIP, the panther, described it as akin to betting on a corpse. A corpse. A dead, unmoving person who could no longer think, let alone get up and compete.

All of those men had been so blind. They hadn’t been able to see what In-ho could – the beauty that had walked onto that court – but that was to be expected. No one understood Gi-hun quite like he did, and they never would.

Another memory is tugged forward – soft yellow lighting and a wide screen, even wider than his own. In-ho remembered the shouts that had filled that room during the fifth game, the handful of numbers thrown back and forth between the mouths of six sickeningly-rich men. He remembers it vividly, because it had been the day this thing had taken root.

(“Down to two positions, first and last.” The man in the lion mask swirls the red liquid in his glass around as he stares up at the screen. Across the room, a voice hums in response.

“Mm. The start and the finish. Two places you really don’t wanna be.” In-ho looks back at the screen, taking in the picture it displays. Player four hundred and fifty-six clutches at the bib in front of him, a storm of conflict in his eyes. He’s deciding which one to pick.

Another voice pipes up, low and considering.

“Going first in a life-or-death contest? Very scary.” The man drawls, the hints of an accent curling around each word. Out of the corner of his eye, In-ho sees the man in the deer mask hold out his glass, letting it be refilled without acknowledging the waiter next to him. Slowly, the VIP brings it up to his lips and takes a sip calmly. He leans back into his couch smoothly, relaxed.

In-ho focuses back on the screen, watching as player four hundred and fifty-six’s hands tighten their grip on the fabric like he’s made a decision.

He’s going to go first.

In-ho’s almost disappointed. This player – the pretty man grasping the bib – was so unlike any of the other players. Somehow, the man’s morals and his foolishly resilient optimism had not fractured into pieces yet. It had hardly wavered, as a matter of fact, and that’s a rarity in a place where people would abandon every last bit of their integrity in a second to further their money-hungry intentions. In-ho’s not used to rarities making it this far. Usually, they’re struck down by the truth or killed off before they can capture his attention.

In-ho doesn’t understand why this player is different but oddly, the more he stares at the man’s face, he wants to.

In-ho doesn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, letting his gaze trail across the man’s expression thoughtfully. There’s something precious about him – a fragile innocence that In-ho would like to see shattered. It’s a shame he’ll never get to. Player four hundred and fifty-six is about to die and that’s just how this game works.

Suddenly, there’s a blur of movement behind the man. In-ho’s eyes flick over – curious – and immediately, an odd feeling washes over him. It’s the other player left in the room.

Player ninety-six opens his mouth and pleads, timid like a mouse:

“Excuse me? Could I be number one instead?”)

Gi-hun’s number hadn’t been hollered across the room once that day, and yet, it had still plagued In-ho’s mind, well into the late hours of the evening. He would have never admitted back then, but a small part of him had been rooting for player four hundred and fifty-six, simply because no one else was.

When Gi-hun had won, that small part of him had transformed into something else. Curiosity.

Sitting next to him now, on a bed with their arms pressed together and the heat of the other man’s body seeping into his own, it morphs into something else entirely – a yearning.

For so long, In-ho had thought it was merely a yearning to witness Gi-hun’s downfall. For god’s sake, he’s ripped himself apart and sewn himself back together for this – put everything on the line to see a man finally lose himself to madness. They’re not even halfway through the week yet and In-ho’s beginning to feel like he’s gone mad instead.

It had seemed so straightforward, when In-ho had first entertained the idea. First, Young-il would gain the other man’s trust using kindness and (seemingly) infrangible loyalty. Then, In-ho would show him that Young-il never existed – that there was no point playing the hero for these people – by destroying the façade in front of Gi-hun’s very eyes.

In-ho still wants that. Sometimes, it’s all he can think about – the only thing that he’s wanted in so long. Gi-hun’s a burst of colour in the monochromatic world his life has become and he’s not about to let that brightness – the vibrant purpose to his purposeless existence – just slip by him. No, In-ho’s going to hold on and he’s going to hold on tight.

But it’s not all he wants, and that’s the problem. Deep inside him, in a place where he constantly discards all the things he doesn’t want to think about, something stirs. It’s small but it’s there, and it’s growing.

In lieu of addressing that, In-ho focuses on Gi-hun. The man’s looking away again, staring out into the distance through the gaps in the bed frame with a troubled expression that speaks of some kind of turmoil he’s not eager to voice. Accepting the silence, In-ho copies him and turns his head too, observing the room in front of them. There’s a blur of movement on the other side of the large space – someone swinging down from a bunk – but the individual is too far away to make out. Someone follows a few seconds after and chases the person.

The room has quietened down quite a bit since Gi-hun has arrived – a striking stillness beginning to steadily creep into the air. When In-ho considers what that means, he decides it isn’t a good thing. He’s running out of time. Soon, this moment and every pleasure that accompanies it will be ripped away from him.

It’s ironic, how In-ho is in charge of this entire facility, and yet in this moment – surrounded by hundreds of foolish, desperate players – he almost feels powerless.

When Gi-hun finally breaks the silence, In-ho savours the sound of the other man’s voice more than ever. It’s low – cautious.

“Tell me about her.”

In-ho frowns, confused, but Gi-hun doesn’t see him. The other man’s too busy looking at the two people standing on the open area of floor in the middle of the room. They’re arguing now. One of them pushes the other away angrily and shouts something, but the distance makes it too difficult to discern what they say.

Without taking his eyes off of the interaction below, Gi-hun clarifies. The pitch of his voice rises ever so slightly.

“Your wife. She must be special if you would do something like this for her.”

…

Wife?

In-ho opens his dry mouth, as if doing so will kickstart his brain and an appropriate reply will spontaneously tumble out. It never does. Eyes bore into his cheek - an unwavering gaze that scorches the open expanse of skin there. In-ho doesn’t turn. He can’t.  

The silence stretches on for a long time – long enough that it must be clear to both of them that In-ho can’t answer the simple question. That realisation – the realisation that he no longer remembers – does not hit In-ho with the force that it should do. Instead, the pain is slow, creeping into his chest with the subtle cunningness of a parasite that threatens to render him defenceless if he does not dispel it. In-ho feels cold. The sheets are so thin.

My… wife.

In a desperate attempt to find something to say, In-ho tries to conjure up the face of the woman he’d married. He succeeds – sees a beautiful grin and rosy cheeks for a split second – then, like something from a nightmare, the image becomes distorted. The memory morphs into a sickly face smiling up at him sadly, yellow from the strain of a condition that only worsened by the day. It morphs into a body, laying frozen on a bed – motionless.

No. Not that. Not her cold body and tired expression, stuck in place forever. That’s not what he had loved about her.

In-ho searches for something better. He searches for something unchanged in all the years he had known her – a steady constant that held strong despite how the illness had inevitably torn its way through her person. He finds it, finally, in the clearest memories he has left of her. It’s a deep wound, and perhaps the bloodiest one of all:

(“In cases such as these, that’s all I can suggest. Neglecting to go through with the procedure could put the mother’s life at risk.” The doctor glances down at the stack of papers in his hands before glancing back up. The man looks calm – too calm – like they’re having a friendly, meaningless conversation about the weather. In-ho feels nauseous. He looks over at his wife and sees her sitting up in bed, hands folded into her lap. Her legs are covered by a crisp, white sheet.

Ye-jin looks defeated.

“I’m afraid so.” The doctor says quietly. He goes back to rummaging through the papers as Ye-jin frowns down at her hands. A second passes and suddenly, the defeat vanishes.

No. No, no, no-

“I’m not doing it.” She looks up, conviction etched into the soft lines of her face. In-ho feels a heaviness bloom in his chest at the sight, an ample weight that makes his knees threaten to buckle where he’s standing next to the bed. He can never change her mind when she looks like that.

“Love-“ He reaches for her hand, lying on top of the creaseless covers. Immediately, Ye-jin snatches it away. She turns her head up to the doctor and continues, voice as steely as her expression.

“I’m going to give birth to this baby, doctor.”)

The memory places words on his tongue – a rare truth. When it rolls off, In-ho finds they don’t taste as sweet as a lie might have.

“She was determined. Sure of herself and what she wanted. I always admired that about her.” In-ho catches his mistake, but only after it has already slipped from his lips and settled into the air between them. The mask of Young-il wavers – a crack erupting across the surface that’s deep enough to reveal something beneath.

He holds onto the hope that maybe, by some miracle, Gi-hun won’t catch it. Cautiously, In-ho shifts his head, preparing to be met with a dissecting gaze that somehow knows far too much. He doesn’t get that, though some part of him argues that the face twisted in sympathy he receives instead is worse. Gi-hun look sorrowful. He looks like he understands.

And then, the man opens his infuriating mouth and makes it so much worse.

“It sounds like you really love her.” Gi-hun smiles gently – kindly – but hidden in the lines of his lips, there’s a pain that bleeds across the rest of his face. In-ho stares, moving up to the crease between the other man’s brow and then down to the valley of his cupid’s bow. His eyes travel lower, to a lap where two hands rest. He thinks idly, how they’d felt wrapped around his own a few hours ago – a hot touch under a torrent of ice-cold water.

Finally, In-ho speaks again. He lies and for some reason, the words still don’t line his mouth with the saccharine aftertaste he’s expecting.  

“I do. I do love her.” Gi-hun’s expression flickers with emotion. Surprise? Doubt?

It’s not entirely untrue – In-ho had once, all those years ago. It’s unfair, when he looks back on everything that had happened. The deadly claws of that illness had taken the woman he had loved from him months before it had claimed her life. It had cunningly swapped his wife out with a thin, weak imitation – one with oceans of sadness in her eyes and a perpetual tremor to her soft hands that only ceased during fleeting periods of rest. It had swapped her out with out with someone he didn’t recognise.

Gi-hun shifts his arm suddenly, crossing the few inches of space between their bodies swiftly. Boldy, he threads the fingers of his hand through In-ho’s, the one that’s resting limply on the bed, and squeezes.

“We can get out of here together, Young-il. I’ll cover the cost of the treatment.”

Oh.

It’s a final blow to an already fracturing composure, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. The mask crumbles, splits like a chasm ripping apart rock to reveal nothing but a wound so ugly and raw, In-ho wants to gag. Fruitlessly, he tries to grasp at the semblance of someone stronger – of something colder – but all of a sudden, he finds nothing. Nothing safe, nothing secure. Instead, he finds lies. He finds a decade of spite he’d thought he had abandoned, fresh and waiting in the back of his mind, ready to greet him with eagerness that hints at the possibility that it never left. The bitterness rouses, gears up and-

“Young-il?”

In-ho shifts his head to the right, following the voice that draws him in. Gi-hun looks calm, an ocean of tranquillity that contrasts the impending hurricane brewing in In-ho’s chest. The man has always been so good – a beacon of virtue – and In-ho feels so out of place, sitting next to someone like that. Someone so perfect. If Gi-hun spends too long here, pressed up against In-ho, will he be corrupted by the evil he has unknowingly crawled into a bed with?

Maybe once, the thought may have appealed to him. Now, In-ho falters at the idea of ruining something so beautiful.

Why?

“I-“ He starts, then changes his mind. “-you don’t need to pity me, Gi-hun.”

In-ho should send Gi-hun away. He should wrap this up promptly and then find a way to push this all down again. This is a simple product of a lapse in his judgement, a moment of weakness brought about by the silly, meaningless touch of a man who means nothing. When it comes down to it, Gi-hun is another speck of dirt beneath his feet-

Dirt you can’t keep your filthy, desperate hands off.

-and all In-ho needs to remember is that he’s the one who’s really in control here. Gi-hun’s a gorgeous kindling of self-destruction waiting to ignite and In-ho just needs to pull himself together and hand the other man the match. Gi-hun will destroy himself, In-ho will sit back and watch-

Who else will be left to see you, if you do that? Who else could ever possibly know you - know this - other than him?

-and it will be spectacular. It will be all In-ho ever needs.

Next to him, Gi-hun parts his lips. Before he can speak, however, the speakers in the room crackle to life and a woman’s voice sounds out – artificial and overly-jovial.

“Lights out in five minutes.”

An odd feeling creeps into the cold emptiness of In-ho’s chest at the words – the clear signal that this conversation is about to draw to a close. He feels the hand intertwined with his own loosen then, with measured slowness, pull away completely. A surge of coldness swoops in to engulf In-ho’s knuckles, making the skin feel uncharacteristically exposed. Absentmindedly, he longs for his gloves to absolve this, as well as hide the long red scratches that still adorn the back of his hands.   

Really, this interruption is saving him; In-ho needs to reevaluate his strategy for the next few days, and he needs to be alone to do so most effectively. He can’t afford to sit here and be distracted – weakened – by the man next to him any longer. In-ho will find a way to repair these stitches – to close the worst of these silly, inconsequential wounds. Then, everything will fall into place, just like it’s supposed to.

“I should probably go.” Gi-hun pauses, but there’s a subtle crease between his brows that hints that he has more he wants to say. In-ho waits, savouring the struggle painted across the other man’s face.

“Thank you. For the jacket and for… listening.” In-ho meets the other man’s eye. He doesn’t say anything – can’t think of anything appropriate for such a strange, tender moment – but a hesitant smile tugs at Gi-hun’s lips like he does. Finally, the man pulls away, ducking under the frame as he shuffles off the bed and gets to his feet once again. In-ho watches, fingers grasping the white sheet covering him to stop him doing something he’ll regret.

Gi-hun grabs his own jacket from the bed and turns, getting ready to make the journey up to his own bed again. Without warning, In-ho’s struck by an impulse – a burning urge he can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries. After a brief battle with his remaining dignity, he relents to the temptation and calls out to the other man. He whispers, but his voice still slices through the deafening silence of the room.

“Gi-hun.” The man in question glides his head back over to the bed, surprised. In-ho second guesses himself for a fraction of a second, but just as quickly, he brushes off the feeling. In-ho doesn’t falter. He doesn’t get paralysed by uncertainty, not anymore.

“With you here, I feel like we can really get out of here. I feel like… I’ll get to see her again.” It doesn’t feel like enough so he keeps going, making sure to sound as sincere as possible.

“Thank you.” Strangely, Gi-hun’s doesn’t react to that. His hands don’t fidget, his mouth doesn’t twitch, his eyes don’t light up. His face goes blank – completely unreadable – and at the sight, In-ho feels bitter frustration burn at the lining of his throat. Golden light shines down from above, lighting up half of Gi-hun’s face in the softest glow. Shadows cloud the other – warping and shifting strokes of a deep abyss In-ho can’t dip his curiosity into.

Then, just as quickly, it’s over.

“Sleep well, Young-il.” Gi-hun smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. When In-ho replies, he tries to keep his tone light.

“I will.”

Gi-hun nods stiffly but doesn’t respond. Before In-ho can think of anything else to say to prolong the inevitable, the man in front of him continues his ascent up the steps, disappearing out of sight in the matter of a few seconds.

Silence worms its way into the air, making the room feel even larger than it already is.  

In-ho rips his gaze away from the empty gap where the man had one stood, opting to focus back on the altercation below. It seems to have concluded, though from the sight of the aftermath, it doesn’t look like the main conflict has been fully resolved. The first person – the one who had chased after the other person – was now alone, pacing back and forth across the space restlessly. It’s a man, and his body language exudes anxiety.

In-ho doesn’t care about gossip but something tells him that what he’d seen might be important, so he catalogues it anyway. With that said, he leans back and lets his head hit the pillow beneath him once more. He doesn’t expect to sleep much tonight, but he doesn’t need to worry about that.

In-ho’s still in charge and that’s not about to change anytime soon.  

Chapter Text

“Get off of me!”

Jong-soo tugs his arm out of the other man’s grip before whirling around. He plants two hands firmly on the pair of shoulders in front of him and shoves, relishing in the way the smaller man stumbles backwards in shock. Kyung-su’s not a weak man by any means – there’s some muscle on his frame – but compared to Jong-soo, he might as well be.

Kyung-su doesn’t react much to the push, just lifts his arms out to balance himself before making eye contact and frowning. He’s so pathetic – a puppy that only does what its owner tells it to. If Jong-soo whistles, the other man will come running.

“Where are you going?” The Kyung-su whines, all high-pitched and grating. Jong-soo points behind him and snarls back, growing more and more irate by the second.

“The bathroom. Where else?” The man in front of him grimaces like he’s in pain before chewing at his lip anxiously. Kyung-su deliberates, posture tense, and Jong-soo hopes that means he’ll decide to finally fuck off. Unfortunately, he’s not so lucky.

“You didn’t mean what you said, right?” Jong-soo’s hands curl into fists by his sides. He fights the urge to aim one at Kyung-su’s face – the left side, so they’ll be matching – and considers the question instead. Anger simmers in his chest like a pot of boiling water and when he answers, sharpened words flying out his mouth like daggers.

“You don’t seriously think we stand a chance with him around? I need that fucking bastard dead.” He leans towards Kyung-su as he speaks, gesturing clumsily at his face as fury builds in his chest. The other man’s eyes flick over to the wound and widen imperceptibly. Jong-soo notices, after all, it’s all anyone’s been doing all day.

He hated that man, for humiliating him in front of everyone. Now, Jong-soo looks weak. When people pass him, they don’t avert their gaze in fear or shift away anxiously. They don’t, because they must instantly recall the image of him restrained, terror pooling in his eyes and bleeding from his movements.

That’s not how it should be.

Jong-soo has spent his entire life looming over others. He looms and people cower. He chases and people scatter. Today, that hadn’t been the case. Today, Jong-soo had been forced to desperately flail around, relying on the mercy of another man to free him from the looming claws of death. Today, Jong-soo had been helpless.

For that, he’s going to kill that player the first chance he gets.

Unfortunately, Kyung-su doesn’t seem to get it. He doesn’t seem to register the threat they’re up against and that becomes clear when the man meekly tries to object.

“We should just wait for him to die in one of the games-“ Jong-soo rolls his eyes and cuts Kyung-su off.

“No, we need to kill him soon or else he’ll just become a bigger problem down the line.” Jong-soo shifts his head to look up at the piggy bank of money above them, emitting a steady glow that bathes the room in a blanket of muted yellow. Desire swirls in his chest, intertwining with the frustration that already resides there.

“I need that money. I need all of it.”

In the corner of his vision, he sees Kyung-su follow his gaze. There’s a brief pause, like the man is deep in thought, then his annoying voice is filling the silence once more.

“But, we can’t overpower him. I saw what he did to you today. I don’t want the same happening to me.” Jong-soo’s eye – the one that isn’t swollen – twitches at the reminder. Embarrassment burns his face and the bruise around his left eye pulses mockingly as a surge of heat engulfs the wound. Jong-soo barks, trying to keep his voice intimidating.

“I’m not stupid enough to fight him. Not unless we have an upper hand.” Kyung-su’s eyebrows furrow with confusion then, like a cartoon character, they dart straight up towards his hairline. His eyes flicker with uncertainty – blatant, undisguised fear – as he stutters out a reply.

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

Maybe, Jong-soo had been wrong. Maybe, Kyung-su really is weak after all, despite the litheness to his build that might suggest otherwise. He certainly seems frail when he hesitates like this – paralyzed by fear and uncertainty. It’s almost as though Kyung-su doesn’t care about the money. As if he’s hoping that by some miracle, it will just fall into his hands and he won’t have to lift a finger for it.

Kyung-su was going to get himself killed quickly if he continued to think like that. He’s lucky that Jong-soo pities him, or else he might already be dead.

“I don’t care what you think. I have a plan.” He’s not bluffing – he does. Jong-soo just needs to wait for the perfect opportunity and play his cards right when it comes.

Predictably, Kyung-su doesn’t look convinced. The man stares intently at a spot on the ground, as if the dull flooring beneath him might relent its wisdom and offer up an answer to all his questions. All the while, the man roughly worries his lower lip.

Jong-soo wonders what his odds of winning are, if most of the people around him are like this. Probably quite high, if he’s to take a guess. The thought dulls some of the intermittent pulses of pain still emanating from his bruise.

“Are we done here?” Kyung-su eyes dart back up to him in surprise as Jong-soo interrupts his musing. The man finally releases his lip to speak as he nods, a tad too fast.

“Y-yeah. I-“

“Good.” Jong-soo whirls around, officially putting an end to the conversation. It’s rude, but it gets the point across. Kyung-su doesn’t chase after him again – doesn’t latch on to his arm like a needy bitch – and Jong-soo doesn’t turn around in case the other man views that as an invitation.

Without any further interruptions, he begins to slowly stalk over to the bathroom, tucking his hands into his pockets along the way. As the soft thuds of his shoes fills the silence, Kyung-su thinks of a woman’s voice, robotically listing out the numbers of eliminated players one by one.

He thinks about her calling out a single digit – the one that plagues him – and smiles.

---

Whenever Gi-hun dreams, he’s taken back to that week.

Sometimes, it’s him staring down at the deathly-still corpse of poor Sae-byeok. Behind him, a black coffin is carried in and a few seconds later, a guard will bury the butt of their gun into his chest, pushing him to aside as he stares on at the eerie scene. Gi-hun never moves, perhaps because he can’t, or perhaps because he doesn’t want to. He just watches – watches as they lift her into the box and carry her off, leaving behind an empty bed drenched in crimson.

Other times, it’s something else.

Sometimes, it’s him standing in the middle of a courtyard, watching dozens of people clamour for the doors during Red Light, Green Light, bodies piling up like ragdolls. Gunshots fill the air, so loud they almost drown out the screams, and then everything is silent once more.

In those kinds of dreams – the brutal, bloody kind – Gi-hun gets to see Sang-woo again. That, he’s come to realise, is a torture in and of itself.

Gi-hun had never been anything like Sang-woo. Back when they were kids, Sang-woo had always excelled at everything he put his mind to – pushing for greatness that never seemed to be out of his reach. No one had ever doubted his friend’s potential and Gi-hun couldn’t blame them in the end, not when that acceptance letter from SNU had arrived to prove what they’d been saying for years.

Cho Sang-woo, Ssangmun-dong’s shining star. Seong Gi-hun, the sad little planet stuck in his orbit.

For a long time, Gi-hun used to wonder if he could have changed that. Maybe, he could have studied harder for tests and held his tongue instead of always speaking his mind. Maybe, he could have learned to be more reclusive – more cold and silently critical of the world that would one day rip him apart. Maybe, if he had been all of those things, he could have gotten into SNU and graduated to become a successful investment banker, just like his childhood friend. He could have tasted a life of success, free from the humiliating failure he was used to.

In hindsight, Gi-hun had been foolish for ever thinking things were that simple. Even four years ago, playing these games as equals once more, Sang-woo had been nothing like him. Sang-woo had killed to make it to the final game: the glass manufacturer, Sae-byeok and maybe others that Gi-hun would never know about. Sang-woo had submitted to the rules and played the part of a caged animal, succumbing blindly to his own greed in a way Gi-hun could never bring himself to.

It was then, after decades of wondering, that Gi-hun had decided he didn’t want to be that kind of person. Sae-byeok had been right – he’s not Sang-woo and maybe, that had turned out to be a good thing.

(That day in the rain, Gi-hun had finally beat Sang-woo at something. It hadn’t felt as good as he’d always imagined it would, back when they were kids.)

However, it’s not always Sang-woo or Sae-byeok that he dreams about. Sometimes, it’s an onyx mask and a distorted, monotone voice – the archetype of sin come to deliver a torture Gi-hun had only narrowly escaped.

In the first dream, they’d been alone in a room together. Gi-hun had been on the floor and on instinct, he had turned his head upwards, hoping to get some bearing of where he was. A mistake, because he hadn’t been alone. The Frontman had slowly raised his arm, a gloved finger had flexing where it sat on the trigger of his gun and at the motion, Gi-hun’s eyes had darted to the barrel, unable to move any other muscle. A minute had passed – one that felt like hours – and then, suddenly, the finger had curled inwards.

The gun was pointed at his head, right between his eyebrows, but for some reason that’s not where the heat erupted from.

It was in his chest. In his heart.

Gi-hun remembers writhing as the Frontman stepped closer and knelt down next to his crumpled form. That’s when the man had finally spoken – a calm, robotic voice reciting a bombardment of vicious insults that had dug into his skin like a thousand sharp, pointed knives. The insults hadn’t stopped, not until the pain had reached a crescendo and Gi-hun had woken up in a cold sweat – wild, frantic and most importantly, not bleeding.

His chest had still pulsed, emitting a fire that suggested otherwise.

That had been the first dream, but more had soon followed.

Sometimes, Gi-hun will be back on that court facing Sang-woo as the clouds above thicken. As the first droplets of rain hit his cheeks, his childhood friend will lunge towards him, clutching a knife in his shaking hand that glimmers in the fading sunlight. The blade will swoop down and Gi-hun will stumble backwards. He’ll black out for a moment, and then, it won’t be Sang-woo standing in front of him anymore.

They’ll fight. Most times, Gi-hun will win – tearing his own knife through flesh like paper – and occasionally, he won’t. It doesn’t really matter because every time, the ground ends up covered in someone’s blood. Even when it isn’t Gi-hun’s, it doesn’t feel like a win, especially not when he’s the one that wakes up straight afterwards – a gasping, shaking mess. It doesn’t feel like a win because he’s the one that’s always rushing over to the bathroom to cough up last night’s dinner into the bowl of a toilet, body cold and hands trembling.

It’s strange to think that there was a time when those nightmares hadn’t existed. Back then, Gi-hun would sleep through every night, not just the odd one. He wouldn’t wake up struggling to catch his breath, restrained by the tight clutch of his bedsheets.

That part of his life felt so distant – wispy remnants of a happier, more carefree man that slip further away from him by the day. A man who was scolded daily by his mother for betting on horses again, or spending too much of their money on cigarettes. A man who was still allowed to see his daughter, who skipped home every day and smiled.

Could he ever get that happiness back? The raw, unabashed kind?

No. Probably not.

At the very least, Gi-hun doesn’t have to worry about the nightmares reaching him here, in the very place that created them. They don’t reach him, because he does not sleep.

It’s better this way, to be awake and tired rather than asleep and tortured. Sleep means being dragged into the confines of that room again or thrown back out onto that court. Sleep means being forced to watch the life flicker out of Sang-woo’s eyes once more as the man falls still in his arms, weak pulse underneath his fingers – the lightest of sensations – then nothing.

Gi-hun exhales, trying his hardest to dispel the image from his mind. When he breathes in again, shaky and slow, he feels cold air brush against his lips.

Clunk.

The noise makes Gi-hun flinch, heart stuttering pathetically in his chest. Suddenly, the ceiling above him is lit up, revealing large air ducts that stretch from wall to wall. They’re unusually large – big enough to fit a human, if Gi-hun had to guess. Big enough, probably, to fit even a grown man like him.

A fraction of a second passes and then, like clockwork, the classical music starts up. It blares through the speakers like it does every morning, grating and loud. Around him, more and more people slowly rouse from slumber.

Here we go.

Mustering up the remains of his diminishing energy, Gi-hun hauls himself up into a sitting position and unceremoniously throws the bed covers down to his ankles. They bunch up, drawing his attention to what lies a few centimetres away.

His jacket.

Cautiously, he eyes the green ball of fabric at the end of the bed and grimaces. It looks innocent enough – perfectly unassuming – but Gi-hun doesn’t let that fool him. The bright lights from above lazily shine down on the heap, creating shadows that look like dark waves, rippling across a vast sea of green. One of the sleeves, folded oddly, lies sprawled on top of the white bed sheet below. Its arm reaches for him, shamelessly tempting him to approach.

His jacket.

Gi-hun leans forward carefully and hovers a hand over the item of clothing. For a moment, he almost forgets. Almost picks the wretched thing up and pulls it back on again, ignoring the events of the day before completely. Almost.

Luckily, before his fingers so much as graze a single crease, he’s hit by the potent rush of a vivid memory. Gi-hun pauses and draws back.

(He stops descending the steps, taking a moment to stare. 

Young-il, lying down in his bed. Young-il, with Gi-hun’s jacket held up to his chest. The man is clearly deep in thought, face ever-so-slightly pinched in deep concentration. Occasionally, his hands shift around slightly and bury deeper into the damp fabric laying over him. Young-il pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth intermittently, latching onto the supple flesh and sinking in subconsciously.

Gi-hun can’t imagine what the man could possibly be thinking about. Part of him wants to turn around and forget that he’d ever thought about coming down here.

He doesn’t. He takes a step forward.)

When Gi-hun had returned to his own bed for the night, he had promptly taken the jacket off and discarded it at the foot of the bed. Then, he had laid down on the lumpy mattress and tried the hardest to rid it from his mind completely, squeezing his eyes closed and pointedly not looking down at his feet where the jacket sat, wordlessly mocking him. His skin had itched, set aflame by the memory of the other man, but Gi-hun had ignored it.

He had ignored it, and it hadn’t gone away.

Gi-hun doesn’t want to think about the night before at all. He’d spent the past few hours trying his hardest not to, pushing every whispered word and stolen look into the back of his mind where he couldn’t keep agonizing over them. Later, when he felt more capable, he would evaluate what he had learnt. He’ll pull it all forwards again and categorize the new information – decide what it means and how useful it is to him. He swears he will. He has to, because Young-il is his key to stopping the games for good and therefore, Gi-hun needs to understand him.

But for him to be able to do that, he needs more. He needs every piece of the puzzle, not just odd fragments that don’t quite fit together.

For now, Gi-hun can only feel confident about the veracity of two of his theories. For one, Young-il must have had a wife at some point. His evidence of this, though not irrefutable, is compelling enough to fill him with sizable certainty. Firstly, Young-il had used the same story as before – that his wife was sick and needed treatment. Secondly, when Gi-hun had asked about her, he’d frozen up. Not in the way someone does when they’ve been caught in a life. No, in the way someone does when they’re being forced to think about something unpleasant. Something that hurts.

That brings him onto the second thing he’s sure about: Young-il’s wife must be dead. The evidence for this, comes from a slip of the tongue. An extra letter at the end of a word that completely changed the meaning of the entire sentence.

‘I always admired that about her.’

Gi-hun still has a lot to learn – so much more that he has yet to coax out of the other man’s lips or read in the twisted lines of a weakened expression. However, for the first time since he’d woken up again, he feels like he’s taking a step in the right direction.

Emboldened, Gi-hun reaches over and grabs the jacket at the end of the bed. This time, when he manoeuvres his arms through the sleeves, he feels far less ashamed of himself.

At last, Gi-hun gets up properly. He leans down towards the step where his dirty shoes sit and tugs them on, briefly frowning at the blood splatters that decorate the sides, before pushing himself to his feet. With a sigh, he begins to make his way down the stairs, taking note of the low hum of voices that fills the room – a bustling mix of anticipation, fear and excitement for the day ahead.

Some of these people will die today. No, a lot of these people will die today.

Guilt stirs in Gi-hun’s chest once more, returning in full-force to scorch the delicate beginnings of his tentative hope to ashes. Unlike the previous two days, Gi-hun knows there’s nothing he can do to change the day’s outcome. In Mingle, there’s a fixed number of doors. In Mingle, the numbers called for each round won’t change, and neither will the order they’re announced, leading to a horrifying reality:

The same number of people will be eliminated. This time, it’s just about who, rather than how many.

Gi-hun feels bile rise up his throat, burning with the sharp sting of punishment. He doesn’t want to fight to win, when it means he’ll have to watch dozens of other people be shot dead. He doesn’t want to live, if someone else could be standing in his place instead.

And, god, how can he possibly play by Young-il’s side, knowing all that he does now?

Gi-hun knows he can’t give up. He’s beginning to think that Young-il wouldn’t even let him if he wanted to. Maybe, if Gi-hun tried to trade his life out for another player’s – a valiant, noble sacrifice that has certainly tempted him in the past – the other man would swoop in and stop him. Maybe, he’ll panic, just like he had at the end of his last life, and crouch over Gi-hun’s dying form, breathing heavily. Frantically.

Still, it doesn’t make any sense. Why drag this out? Young-il will have to end this eventually. The two of them can’t play cat and mouse forever, not in a place like this.

It wouldn’t even be difficult. Gi-hun had mostly stuck to practising with firearms over the past four years, so he wasn’t feeling particularly confident in his hand-to-hand combat abilities. If he had known he’d be back in here with the fucking Frontman, he might have reevaluated that decision but as it stands, he hadn’t had that kind of foresight and after yesterday, everybody – including Young-il – could see that.

The other man could lunge for him, wrap his arms around his neck and twist. Gi-hun could be dead before the scream can push past his lips and most certainly before anyone can intervene to help.

But hey, if Young-il’s feeling lazy, he could just get a guard to shoot Gi-hun in the head. Clean. Quick. He wouldn’t even need to wash the blood of his hands.

So, why not? Why not now, while Gi-hun’s right here, subdued and open for the kill?

With Gi-hun gone, the other man wouldn’t have to be here to keep an eye on him. Young-il could return to his precious control room, don that mask once more and pretend none of this ever happened. It must be more comfortable than being here, surrounded by dozens of people that wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. In their eyes, Young-il is just another player – another million won to get their greedy hands on. He’s putting his own life at risk, the longer he spends here.

“Gi-hun!” Three quarters of the way down the steps, a voice calls out to him, making him pause. He looks around, searching for the source of the voice and quickly finds it, a few metres away and waving enthusiastically.

Jung-bae.

The other man makes a ‘come here’ gesture with his hands, calling him over. Gi-hun diverts his gaze past his friend to the two people already sitting down next to him, Dae-ho and Jun-hee. The younger man starts to wave too, grinning.

As Gi-hun approaches, Jung-bae pats the space beside him, inviting him to sit down. He does, lowering himself onto the seat carefully before turning to face the other man. Smiling, Jung-bae reaches over and grasps his shoulder in a friendly motion, shaking him lightly.

“Finally, I was wondering where you were man!” Gi-hun frowns. Almost on instinct, he shifts his head to look over his shoulder, up at the stairs where he came from.

There are people, roughly half a dozen – a few men crowded around one of the beds and a couple women making their way down, whispering lowly to each as other as they do.

Importantly, no Young-il.

All of a sudden, Gi-hun feels uneasy. It’s the same stomach-churning feeling from yesterday – the same worry that steadily pools in his gut, thick and foreboding. It finds its way to his head and casts a shadow over his thoughts again as it drags him back down into the dark pit he’d just escaped from.

No. Young-il’s sleeping. He wouldn’t leave this place so soon.

The longer Gi-hun stares at the steps, the more stupid he feels. Eventually, with some difficulty, he turns back to Jung-bae as a question presses against the wall that is his clenched teeth. He feels himself waver – an itch that tears a crack in his composure – and then, like water flooding a dam, that wall breaks.

“Where’s Young-il?”

Instantly, he regrets the question. His friend’s eyes narrow in suspicion as he abruptly pulls his hand away, releasing Gi-hun’s shoulder like it burns.

“Dunno. Still asleep probably.” Disinterested, Jung-bae shifts his head away to stare into the distance. Gi-hun clenches his teeth, a lump forming in his throat that doesn’t go away, no matter how many times he swallows. As the mind-numbingly long seconds drag on, he swallows a lot.

In reality, Jung-bae speaks again a minute later. To Gi-hun – to the ache in his bones and the pounding in his head – it feels like hours.

“Did you sleep well?” Jung-bae breaks the tension, speaking slowly – carefully – like Gi-hun is something that needs to be tip-toed around. He hates it. Hates Young-il, for ruining everything as usual. Hates himself, for letting him.

There’s no reason to lie, especially seeing as Young-il’s not here yet, so Gi-hun doesn’t bother.

“I… didn’t sleep.” He pushes the truth past the lump in his throat, voice unsteady. Next to him, Jung-bae’s eyes go wide with shock that quickly transforms into concern. He reaches over again and clutches onto Gi-hun’s shoulder as he replies, worried.

“At all?” Gi-hun shakes his head slowly and Jung-bae grimaces. His friend’s worry is palpable, and Gi-hun can’t blame him, seeing as they’re all going to be fighting for their lives in a few hours. If there’s one thing that Gi-hun has learnt, it’s that these games don’t pity the weak, frail or pregnant. These games swallow everyone and spit out the strongest, the people who will fight with everything in them to live to see tomorrow. All you can do it just hope – pray to whatever god might be out there – that that’s you.

Gi-hun thinks of himself, of the years he has spent sharpening his softer, more pliant edges. He thinks of the way this place dulls them again, reducing him back to the naïve, foolish man that had played the first time. That man, for all his determination to live, had trusted far too easily. Had latched onto anyone who showed him the slightest bit of mercy or compassion and clung on for dear life, carelessly oblivious to the blatant risk such an action posed.

Sang-woo, standing there with a knife clutched in his hand and Sae-byeok’s blood smudged across his face. The final transmission Young-il had sent him over the radio – the gurgling of blood followed by deafening silence.

Betrayal. Every time, every person.

Will he ever learn?

“Don’t worry, we’ll get through the next game as a team!” From the other side of Jung-bae, Dae-ho chimes in. The kid sounds so enthusiastic that for a second – a delirious, sleep-deprived second – Gi-hun almost believes him.

He nods back and smiles lightly, trying not to worry too much about their odds. All of them had survived last time, sure, but would the extra five players who had made it this far this time around change anything? Were things going to go wrong, simply because of a slight alteration in the timeline that might have seemed inconsequential, but in reality, had doomed them all?

He knows that he shouldn’t think of it like that. He should be relieved that he’s been able to change the outcome of this life in any sort of way, even if it doesn’t feel like much. Really, it means everything. It means five people that might go on to make it out of this place, back to family and friends and the life that has been cruelly torn away from them. This is good, and it’s exactly what he wants to continue fighting for. 

In the back of his mind, pessimism gathers like dark storm clouds. He tries to ignore them, but they quickly seize control:

This means nothing. This means nothing because most, if not all, of those five people will die today.

Soullessly, Gi-hun wonders if any of this meant anything. He isn’t sure anymore; not like he had been when he’d first woken up. Back then, he’d thought this meant something – that this was what it really meant to get lucky. Finally, after years of losing hundreds of bets, the universe had decided to take pity on pathetic Seong Gi-hun. It had seen him, dying on those steps with his blazing dream cradled in his trembling fingers and thought that he deserved another chance.

But, that wasn’t true at all. Seong Gi-hun doesn’t get lucky, and he most certainly does not win. That’s his life in a nutshell – the universe kicks him he’s stood up and it kicks him when he’s down, and when he raises his hands to defend himself or god forbid, block the blows, it kicks harder.

“Hey… Gi-hun?” All of a sudden, Jung-bae’s face enters his peripheral, forcefully dragging him back to the present. Gi-hun focuses on his friend’s face and replies, trying his best to sound conversational.

“Yeah?” His voice warps around the single word, almost cracking. Next to him, Jung-bae sucks in a sharp breath and continues.

“Why…” Jung-bae avoids eye-contact, looking out into the room like it’s the most interesting place in the world. “Why were you wearing Young-il’s jacket yesterday?”

Slowly, his friend turns back and waits for a reply. Gi-hun blinks. The wave of confusion that hits him instantly drowns out what remains of his sombre thoughts, dragging them away to the back of his mind. He parts his lips, but nothing leaves them.

Along the row, a cheery voice pipes up again. Dae-ho sounds excited, like he’s been waiting for them to talk about this.

“Yeah! I was wondering about that too. Did you guys swap in the bathroom?” They had, but it had been such an insignificant, small detail that Gi-hun hadn’t thought that anyone would actually notice. It was just a digit, after all. He nods easily and answers slowly, confusion mounting by the second.

“Yes-“ Jung-bae’s eyebrows shoot up and on instinct, Gi-hun rushes to clarify. “-I got mine wet so he gave me his.” It sounds reasonable and, most importantly, it’s the plain truth.

“Oh.” Dae-ho clutches his chest in relief, exhaling heavily. “Thank god.” At the man’s response, dread collects in his gut – a heavy, sinking kind of weight. It makes him feel like stone, frozen to the spot and unable to move. It warns him to brace, to not ask the question that will make this so much worse, but he doesn’t listen. Gi-hun's always loved to walk straight into the arms of danger, despite all the warning signs that tell him not to.

“What? What did you think happened?”

It’s Jun-hee that answers this time, staring down at her shoes as she does so. The woman looks a little uncomfortable, like she’s rather be anywhere else than here on these steps, having this conversation. That makes two of them.

“I don’t think you want an answer to that question.”

Oh.

At last, it clicks.

The bathroom. Him and Young-il. Gi-hun, coming out with flushed cheeks, red from the harsh sting of the water he’d used to splash his face.

“You- you thought that me and-“ Gi-hun can’t even say it, so he chooses not to. “Are you serious?”

The silence that greets his question is all the answer he needs. With a groan, Gi-hun buries his head in his hands and tries his hardest to slow his racing heart. Jung-bae’s hand finds his shoulder again, offering up a pitiful attempt at comfort. It might have helped if it wasn’t followed by the sound of his friend’s voice, dealing the finishing blow.

“Well, can you really blame us?”

“I- I’m not-“ He searches for the words but they keep escaping him, so he just clamps his mouth shut instead, resigning himself to his embarrassment.

Behind them, a pair of steady footsteps grow louder and louder. They stop, and then someone is sitting down next to him. Gi-hun already knows who it is before they start speaking, but he has to fight back the instinct to flinch anyway.

“Good morning, Gi-hun.” A gentle hand wraps around his bicep, coaxing his head out of his hands. Gi-hun looks up at the source of all his anguish – his persistent, unrelenting suffering – and feels a surge of loathing soar through him, blinding and red.

Young-il keeps speaking, blissfully unaware.

“Did you sleep alright?” The man smiles kindly, calmly, as though he hasn’t sensed the tension in the air yet. More likely, the asshole’s just choosing to ignore it.

Of course I didn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep and it’s your fault.

Gi-hun knows to Young-il, he might as well be a sheet of glass – easy to see through and even easier to shatter. He knows this, but out of spite, he chooses to lie anyway.

“Fine.” He grits out, turning away. Young-il doesn’t let go. The man’s grip only tightens, digging into his arm like Gi-hun is about to stand up and walk away. It’s a tempting thought, so maybe Young-il’s right to be worried.

On his right, Jung-bae coughs, a little strangled. Gi-hun winces at the loud sound as the pounding in his head continues to grow worse. For some reason, the exhaustion is hitting him worse in this life than it had his last. It’s bad – catastrophic, even – because there’s only one more chance for Gi-hun to get this right and he can’t afford to be like this the whole time, not if he wants to make it further than last time. Right now, he’s practically defenceless and at some point, someone’s going to notice the extent of that and use it against him.

He thinks of Mingle – remembers the flashing lights and rotating platform. The running to get to a door as you bump into every person in your path. The clamouring. The screams.

He sighs audibly, headache protesting the memory.

It’s going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

Of the three games Gi-hun had played in his previous life, Mingle had been the worst.

For starters, it had killed the most people.

Gi-hun remembers watching through the gap in one of the doors, horrified. He remembers - in eerily vivid detail – the sound of gunshots ripping through the air, followed by the dull thud of dozens of bodies hitting the ground shortly afterwards, never to move of their own accord again. He remembers the excruciating minutes spent waiting for those very corpses to be loaded into coffins and carted off by a forklift, and then the harrowing, soul-shattering click of the door unlocking when it was all over, releasing them back into the room. 

With the bodies gone, it was almost like nothing had ever happened. Except, something had happened, and the shiny red stains all over the floor could attest to that. The platform was red, but the pools of blood had been redder – a deep crimson that contrasted the calm pastels of the room’s walls like stains on a white shirt.

The careless disregard of human life was one thing, but there was more to it than that. Mingle had been the worst because it had managed to do the very thing Gi-hun despised the most: it had turned the players themselves against each other.

Unlike the previous two games, survival was deceptively tangible. Everyone had known that – had known that all it took to live was to cross the short distance that separated the platform and the edge of the room – and so naturally, people had fought. They had shoved and pushed and pulled to get to a door before another group because as soon as the music came to a stop and a number was called, that was the only think that really mattered.

It was brutal, it was animalistic and now, Gi-hun has to witness it all over again. He has to experience it all over again, as if it wasn’t bad enough the first time.

“What do you think this is going to be?”

Amongst the hum of dozens of other voices, a certain one captures his attention. He turns and comes face to face with Jung-bae’s side profile – a tad too close. They’re all packed together in the hallway like sardines, waiting in preparation for one of the guards to open the curtains ahead to let them into the main room for the next game. Every so often, someone shifts their arm and it has a domino effect – one person moves forward and bumps into the next, causing a ripple that travels along the tight huddle.

As he thinks about how to respond, the same thing happens again. A chest presses further into his back, stealing his attention away with ease. He feels more than sees Young-il shift as he pushes closer and just like that, Gi-hun’s dragged under the harsh light of an empty bathroom, holding a pair of bloodied hands. If he were to close his eyes, he might even be able to see Young-il’s face in the reflection of a mirror – a tense expression twisted in pain.

He swallows hard, trying to his best to forget about that. Jung-bae’s a good distraction – a face that’s nothing like the one that looms behind him. Gi-hun allows himself to ponder his friend’s question, slipping back into the cavernous depths of his mind.

What if he just told everyone the truth? Would it make any difference?

He doesn’t think so. You can’t predict what people will do in a game like this – can’t predict who will rush for what door and with who. It’s mostly up to chance, whether you’ll make it into a room or not. Even if that wasn’t the case, it still wouldn’t be a good idea to let the others know yet. If Young-il finds out so soon, all of this would have been for nothing.

When Gi-hun speaks, he hopes that no-one else can hear his voice waver as he lies through his teeth. If he’s lucky, they’ll just mistake it for fear.

“I don’t know. Until we know, we should stay close together.”

A pair of eyes bore into the side of his head. Gi-hun doesn’t turn to face the man they belong to, cautious of what he’ll see.

When the doors finally open and they’re all led into the main room, Gi-hun tries his hardest not to grimace. The warm lighting from above is kinder to the headache still pounding in his skull, but he knows it’s only a temporary reprieve. As for the actual room itself, it’s inordinately big. So big, in fact, that it makes the players themselves appear smaller – like tiny insects under the watchful eye of a being far larger than them. A palette of gentle colour paints the entire scene, complementing the soft yellow glow that fills the space.

It looks nice – almost cosy. 

Hesitantly, he looks over at the centrepiece of the room as a weighty unease begins to settle down in his gut. A large circular platform sits, luring curious players closer.  

Soon enough, the grating voice on the PA system is drowning out the murmur of the crowd. As she speaks, Gi-hun feels his stomach stir like a restless tide. They’d only gotten a single, meagre roll of bread during mealtime yesterday and yet the small portion of food he’d eaten was still enough to make him feel sick. In his desperation to stop himself from keeling over and doing just that, he tries to breathe slowly through his nose and out of his mouth, pausing shortly in-between.

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

Maybe Gi-hun’s feeling a little too stressed, because the breathing exercise does very little to calm him. Fuck.

“Welcome to your third game. The game you will be playing is Mingle. Let me repeat, the game you will be playing is Mingle.” 

From ahead, an excited voice rises above the murmur of the crowd. Gi-hun recognises it, but finds he can’t immediately think of a number to pair with the sound. It sounds like the young man with the purple hair, he realises; the one that Young-il had beaten up on the very first day.

“Hey. We’ll be mingling together. Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?”

Gi-hun strongly disagrees. In fact, he’d say that this is about to be the exact opposite of fun. It’s going to be hell.

The woman continues as more and more players filter into the room. She gives a direct instruction; one that sets Gi-hun’s instincts alight with cold panic.

“All players, please step onto the centre platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into a room and close the door within thirty seconds.”

There’s no avoiding this. I have to live. I have to try. Gi-hun repeats the statements in his head like a mantra, hoping they might fill him with some confidence. He’s going to need it, if he knows anything about how this is about to go.

“Oh this game? We used to play something similar on school trips. We formed groups by hugging.” There’s a fondness to Jung-bae’s tone as he speaks of his school days. Gi-hun wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him – wants to shout until his voice his hoarse and Jung-bae understands. None of this is normal. None of this is nostalgic.

How can Jung-bae be so calm? How can he look down the barrel of death and still find a reason to smile? A part of Gi-hun can’t help but feel jealous. If he could be that blasé, it might make all of this so much easier. Unbidden, he thinks of Dragon Motors – of years of his friend keeping a level head as Gi-hun flailed, like a fish out of water. Those years quickly morph into something far more sinister, something that digs its claws in and pulls.

Chaos. Red and blue lights, flashing from somewhere close by. The loud shouts of about a dozen officers, armed and approaching. Smoke, gradually forming a greyish cloud in front of him that makes it impossible to see anything that’s more than a few feet ahead. Fire, glowing a mesmerizing amber as small particles of carbon glow red hot.

Jung-bae, making fun of how he would cry in his sleep, begging for his mum. Jung-bae, always there and always smiling.

What a useless coward Gi-hun had been back then. What a useless coward he is now, incapable of shoving his worries aside to focus on the present situation like his friend.

Dae-ho says something back to Jung-bae but Gi-hun’s too distracted to catch it. Instead, he looks over at Jun-hee. She doesn’t look panicked, but that could be because she’s really good at hiding how she truly feels. This game will be the hardest on her, as speed will be key. If she can’t get to a door, she won’t make it.

She made it last time. She’ll make it this time.

It doesn’t take long for every player to make their way onto the platform in the middle of the room. The last few people climb on and the woman speaks again, four words Gi-hun loathes.

“Let the game begin.”

There’s a clunk as the surface under Gi-hun’s feet shifts abruptly and then, the platform begins to turn slowly. With it, comes the music.

“Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance.”

Helplessly, Gi-hun tries his hardest block the children’s voices out. He focuses on casting his mind back to the first time he’d played Mingle instead. He tries to remember the numbers for each round, but the task isn’t easy – not with the ceaseless pounding in his skull that makes delving into his memories nigh impossible.

Had the first round been eight? No, actually he doesn’t think that number was ever called. Had it been four then? Gi-hun’s definitely sure the last number was going to be two but anything before that, he isn’t too sure about.

God, what’s wrong with him?

All of a sudden, a warm, familiar weight presses up against his shoulder. He turns to his left, already knowing who the culprit is.

Like there’s no place he’d rather be, Young-il smiles. Serenely. At ease. There’s something about it – about the soft, curved line and gentle creases that surround it – that takes the edge off Gi-hun’s panic. Maybe, it’s the way the simple gesture is offered up so freely, without him having to try and coax it out. Maybe, it’s the way that he’s seen it so many times by now that the sight has been permanently imprinted in his mind – a scalding mark that has left a nasty, but achingly familiar scar.

Is this mine too? Does this belong to me, and me alone?

Gi-hun remembers now, what the first number is. It’s ten.

”We will clap our hands and sing. We will clap our hands and sing. La-la-la-la, let’s have fun dancing.”

Gi-hun looks around, taking note of the different faces around him. He catches sight of player one hundred and twenty, standing a few metres away with three other people. Two women, one younger and one much older, plus a man – the older woman’s son if he remembers correctly.

In his past life, they had been good people. It’s people like them – innocent people who are going to be ruined by the cruelty of this place – that Gi-hun wants to save. They aren’t the smartest, quickest or strongest, but that doesn’t matter. No, he wants them to get out of here because they deserve it.

Last time, player ninety-five had died during Mingle. He remembers the grief on player one hundred and twenty’s face too well – a mess of emotions slowly blending into a tragic picture of agony. Of regret. Gi-hun remembers it so well, because that agony had felt like his own.

Could he have done something, anything, to save her?

Could he have done something, anything, to save any of those people?

“Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring. Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring.”

Now, he’s about to find out. If there’s anything he can do to save that woman, he wants to take the risk. There’s not point in doing this all over again, if he’s just going to let things play out exactly like they had before.

“We will go hand in hand and have fun jumping around. Round and round-“

For a second, time seems to pause. For a second, it’s just Gi-hun and the vomit climbing up his throat, a battle he’s beginning to fear he won’t win. For a second, it’s just his rapid breathing and aching head, the shaking of his limbs and the cold dread in his chest.

Then, it isn’t.

The platform clunks, coming to an abrupt stop. Shortly after, the music cuts off. Panicked gasps fill the air and then-

“Ten.”

Instantly, it’s chaos. Gi-hun blinks, and then the warm yellow glow is gone. Instead, all he can see is pinkish-red and all he can hear is shouting – loud, frantic shouting. It’s far away, over on the other side of the platform. It’s behind him, right into his ear where it hits him like a bludgeon. It’s everywhere.

With difficulty, he rushes into action. Player one hundred and twenty and her group are still a few metres away, looking around for anyone who will join their group. He crosses the distance between them and grabs the woman’s arm, getting her attention.

“How many are you?” One hundred and twenty raises her hand to show four fingers as she responds.

“Four.” That makes nine, but they still need one more. Last time, it had been the shaman – player forty-four. Gi-hun has to admit, he’s not to keen to see her again after what she’d done in his previous life. Unfortunately, she might be the only person they’ll be able to get.

“That makes us nine.” Just as Jung-bae is finished speaking, a man rushes forward. He faces their group and pleads.

“Are you a group of five? So are we. Come with us!” Just like last time, another man nearby overhears this and interrupts before Jung-bae can respond. He grabs the original man by his jacket, tugging him back roughly.

“Hey! We have five people too! Come on, come with us!” The first man doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t matter in the end. He’s dragged off, swept away by the panic and chaos around him until all ten men disappear from sight for good. Jung-bae curses under his breath as he watches them go.

By now, it's too late to find anyone other than the shaman. There’s really no other way this could have gone, when Gi-hun considers the possible outcomes of this first round. Player one hundred and twenty’s group will make it, and that’s all that really mattered.

He looks past Jung-bae and sees forty-four, staring up at the horses in the middle of the platform. He wastes no time, running to grab her by the arm. Player one hundred and twenty notices and rushes into action, shouting to the others.

“The red door! Go!” The woman takes off and the others follow, rushing over towards the side of the room as fast as they can. Gi-hun digs his fingers into the shaman’s arm and drags her with him, almost tripping over his own feet as the urgency in him takes over. He doesn’t glance at the clock. He can’t.

Thankfully, the woman in his arms doesn’t protest to being manhandled. She goes easily and soon enough, they’ve made it to the door where Young-il is waiting for them. It’s almost comical, the way the man stands to the side, politely holding the door open for the two of them to enter first. It’s shame that Gi-hun’s the only one that gets the joke.

What a dick. He’s trying so hard.

Gi-hun darts inside, ignoring the other man. He finally releases the shaman, who upon being let go, immediately stumbles forward in a trance. He watches her, feeling a little dazed himself. Pathetically, he drags himself over towards one of the walls and rests the weight of his body against it. The surface is pleasantly cold – like icy water to remedy a searing burn.

Soon enough, a loud beep sounds out as the lock of the door automatically turns, shutting them inside. Gi-hun swallows, knowing what comes next. This time, when the sound of gunshots fills the silence of the room, Gi-hun can only squeeze his eyes shut in pain. There’s something very wrong with him and whatever it is, it’s only getting worse.

Fuck, am I going to die again? Is this really going to get me killed?

“Hey man, are you alright?” He opens his eyes again to see Jung-bae in front of him, brows knitted together in concern. Gi-hun nods in response to his friend’s question, planting his hands on the wall behind him like he might push himself off.

“I’m fine.” The dryness of his mouth makes his voice sound unnaturally rough, like he hasn’t spoken in weeks. Gi-hun holds a fist up to his mouth and coughs, hoping to dispel the strange pressure in his throat, with little success. Out of nowhere, a blur of green enters his vision, making him jump slightly.

Without permission, Young-il lifts a hand up to his forehead. Instantly, the warmth of the other man’s palm sears his skin, stunning him into silence as he processes the odd feeling. Gi-hun’s hands tense where they rest against his side, itching to shove – to release four years of anger in one swift movement – but they don’t, because Gi-hun can’t move. A thousand words get caught in his throat, a passionate cuss for each vile confession, and Gi-hun is unable to part his lips to voice any of them, no matter how ardently he aches to. Instead, he just stands there, quietly accepting the touch of a man he loathes. He stands there and takes it like it isn’t killing him.

Those very hands have taken so much from him. Now, they’re taking more – they’re taking his dignity. It’s disgusting, because at the same time, there’s a weird sort of thrill about that. About Young-il touching, not to hurt or destroy, but to find.

“Your body temperature is abnormally high. You might have a fever.” Young-il lowers his hand, but doesn’t pull away. Gi-hun stares at him for a long second, searching the man’s face for anything other than careful indifference. He doesn’t find anything because Young-il is retreating back behind the steel wall of his stupid façade again and Gi-hun is letting him, unable to muster up the strength to stop him.

We’re both cowards. Two sides of the same shitty coin and I think you know that, don’t you Young-il?

Gi-hun finds his voice again, somewhere amongst the bitter frustration boiling up in his chest. It’s easy to be angry – to be mad at how unfair this all is.

“That doesn’t matter right now.” It doesn’t, because Gi-hun knows he isn’t sick. If that was the case, then he would have displayed symptoms of an infection in his past life too, which he hadn’t. No – whatever this is, it’s not a fever, that’s for sure.

Maybe, he thinks with amusement, this is the time-travel. Maybe, having your consciousness ripped out of your dying body and stuffed inside a version of yourself from days prior comes with all of this. It’s a sick joke, if so. A sick joke that is going to get him killed, if he isn’t careful enough.

Thirty fucking seconds.

“The following players have been eliminated.” The woman on the PA starts to list out every player that just died. To Gi-hun, it’s all a garble of distant noise – numbers that blur into one lethal stab. He’s almost thankful when the lock on the door clicks, letting them back into the main room again. Finally, for the briefest of moments, it’s quiet.

Slowly, the others start to file out of the door, one by one. They leave, until it’s just him, Young-il and an empty room. Gi-hun stares at the other man, confused.

“What?”

“You don’t look after yourself.” Young-il doesn’t waste any time, sinking his teeth into the moment like a hungry shark. Gi-hun’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised, but the other man doesn’t pay any attention. Young-il continues, voice carefully neutral. “It’s going to kill you.”

Gi-hun almost laughs at that. A smile tugs at his lips – a small, self-deprecating thing – and instantly, Young-il’s eyes dart down to it. The man stares for a long second, face growing tense.

“Yeah?”

The word falls out of his mouth into the space between them, mean and mocking. Gi-hun can’t bring himself to care, not when Young-il’s reaction is exquisite. The man’s face spasms with some emotion Gi-hun can’t place and whatever it is – whatever is breaking the man in front of him into pieces again – it burns with the fury of a thousand suns.

Anger? Or maybe, fear?

Are you scared I’ll die out there, by a hand that isn’t your own? Are you scared, Young-il?

Young-il shifts. He takes a step forward, closer, and Gi-hun’s heart responds in kind – pounding so fast and so loudly that by now, the other man must be able to hear it. Gi-hun braces for anything. He braces for the sensation of cold steel pressed against his forehead as Young-il pulls out a gun and aims it as head, right between his eyebrows. He braces for two warm hands, enclosing the width of his neck and squeezing.

Whatever it is, Gi-hun will take it. He won’t give Young-il the satisfaction of a fight, not while he’s in his current state.

At last, Young-il speaks. The man’s voice is low and dangerous – carrying the threat of something Gi-hun isn’t ready for.

“Gi-hun-“

“The next round will begin shortly. Please may all players return to the centre platform.”

For the first time ever, Gi-hun feels relieved when the PA system blares though the room. The woman’s voice makes Young-il pause and then slowly, like a man numb with rage, turn his head up towards a corner of the room.

A camera?

Whatever it is, Gi-hun makes the most of the opportunity and pushes himself off of the wall. He stumbles past Young-il and out the door, gasping as he escapes the suffocating atmosphere of the cage behind him. 

Shit.

As he hurries back onto the platform and takes his place next to Jung-bae, Gi-hun swallows hard. Every part of him feels heavy – like he’s being weighed down by something he can’t see. He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, hoping the pain will distract him from the unbearable pressure behind his eyelids.

Young-il appears a few seconds later, silently stepping onto the platform. Gi-hun looks past him, down at a puddle of blood a few metres away. It shines in the low light, waiting for someone’s shoe to disturb its calm surface.

A shiver runs up Gi-hun’s spine. Bile burns the bottom of his oesophagus with a vengeance, coaxing him with the promise of relief. It wants him to let go – to surrender.

“Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance.”

Chapter Text

”We will clap our hands and sing. We will clap our hands and sing. La-la-la-la, let’s have fun dancing.”

The next number is going to be four.

Gi-hun looks out into the distance and frowns. Colours glide across his vision and when he lifts his head upwards, all he can see is yellow spots of light.

He swallows, and thinks.

Last time, Young-il had separated from the group. Gi-hun’s tempted to let the exact same thing happen again, seeing as he’s not worried about Young-il this time around. The other man can’t die, so it doesn’t really matter if he makes it to safety or not.

In his previous life, Gi-hun hadn’t known that. Last time, looking out into the main room, all he’d been able to think about was Young-il – kind-hearted, gentle Young-il – stuck outside as the timer beeped. About the man’s bloody, limp body being tossed carelessly into a coffin and carried off, never to be seen again.

Even back then, four years after he’d thought he’d learnt his lesson, Gi-hun had fallen victim to the crushing weight of his own emotions again. How embarrassing.

“Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring. Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring.”

Gi-hun looks to his right, over at where Young-il is standing. For once, the man is keeping his distance. That’s good, because it’s taking every bit of willpower Gi-hun has left to stop himself from throwing his guts up and he’s pretty sure if Young-il was standing any closer, Gi-hun would finally submit to his desire for vengeance and do it down the front of the other man’s tracksuit. It’s a certainly tempting thought.

If I can’t kill Young-il, I might as well humiliate him.

“We will go hand in hand and have fun jumping around. Round and round-“

When the platform jolts to a stop, Gi-hun pitches forward. Panicked, he lifts his hands up to his mouth and holds his eyes shut for a long second, willing away the urge to gag.

“Four.”

The woman on the PA calls out the next number, but Gi-hun hardly hears her. The whole room descends into panic once more as people begin to rush around, grabbing at and pushing anyone in their path. Gi-hun knows he should open his eyes – should move to get to a room – but instead, all he can do is curl in on himself, clutching his sides in pain.

He stays like that for a second, before he’s interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder and a low voice in his ear.

“Gi-hun, look at me.” Gi-hun opens his eyes, and is immediately greeted by the sight of Young-il’s face, a few inches from his own. He sucks in a sharp gasp and lifts up a hand to push the other man away but Young-il is faster. The other man latches onto his wrist, fingernails sinking into exposed flesh.

When Gi-hun speaks, he shouts – voice rising above the noise around them.

“What-“

Before he can finish, there’s a flash of colour in the corner of vision. It’s Jung-bae, and he’s wearing an expression Gi-hun knows all too well.

He’s about to say something stupid. Something I’m going to hate.

Gi-hun starts to shake his head, protesting with mute disapproval, but Jung-bae opens his mouth anyway. Each word cuts like a dagger, burying deep into his chest where his heart pounds loudly.

“You two go with Dae-ho and Jun-hee. I’ll find three more people.”

Gi-hun’s mouth falls open. When he tries to lunge for Jung-bae, he’s pulled back like a dog on a leash. Jung-bae tries to placate him as he takes a decisive step backwards, but his words have very little effect. All they do is make him feel worse.

“Gi-hun, I’ll be fine.”

“No-“

Jung-bae doesn’t listen. Before Gi-hun can finish, his friend is gone, sprinting off to be swallowed up by the chaos of the crowd ahead. Gi-hun stares until he’s out of sight. He stares until he can’t – until a horrible thought hits him with the blunt force of fist, cracking him into pieces:

What if that’s it? What if I’m alone now?

Gi-hun can’t do this by himself. He can’t. It’s too late, but he can’t stop the panic from ripping a scream from his throat, raw and desperate.

“Jung-bae!”

One of his feet tenses in preparation to boost himself forward but before he can, he’s being dragged backwards. Young-il has let go of his wrist by now in favour of wrapping an arm securely around of his midriff. Gi-hun squirms, attempting to break free, but he doesn’t have any success. He thinks about screaming again but eventually decides against it, in fear that Young-il will tighten his hold.

Fuck.

Gi-hun looks up at the clock. Fourteen seconds. He turns his attention to the middle of the room and scours the platform for any sight of his friend. The flashing lights make it too difficult to make out the specific details of each face he scans and, as his vision becomes cloudy with unshed tears, objects in the distance begin to blur into one blob of colour anyway.

By the time they’ve reached a door, all the fight in Gi-hun has died. Instead, he just feels cold, like all the warmth in his body has slowly seeped out of him.

If he’d have known his friend was going to do this, Gi-hun would have stopped him. He would have pulled himself together and demanded that Young-il leave instead, because that’s how this was supposed to go.

This is all Young-il’s fault, as usual.

Once the four of them are inside the room and the door is firmly shut, Young-il’s grip loosens. Gi-hun notices this and pulls away roughly, putting some distance between him and the other man as fast as he can. He retreats to the far wall and rests the side of his body against it, trying to take deep breaths instead of sharp, shallow ones.

This time, there’s no familiar voice in his ear asking if he’s alright. This time, when he peels his eyes open, it’s Young-il standing there, not Jung-bae.

Gi-hun tries to glare, but the other man isn’t dissuaded. He steps forward carefully, like he’s approaching a timid animal that’s about to flee.

“You heard him. He said he was going to be fine.” Gi-hun scoffs. Listening to Young-il’s pitiful attempt at reassurance would be funnier if they were in a different situation. He shifts his body so he’s facing Young-il head-on before replying.

“And what makes you so sure?” Gi-hun’s being unnecessarily rude. It’s making him look like an asshole but for once, he can’t bring himself to care. In front of him, Young-il’s face twitches. It’s subtle – barely noticeable – but Gi-hun’s paying more attention than the normal person.  

Young-il opens his mouth again but before he can say anything, another voice beats him to it.

“Sir-“ Gi-hun looks over at Dae-ho as the younger man steps forward. He nervously darts his eyes between Young-il and Gi-hun, before settling his gaze on the latter. “We have to believe in him. I do.”

As Dae-ho speaks, his eyes light up with optimism. Guilt floods Gi-hun’s chest at the sight, and it only grows as he considers the other man’s words.

Dae-ho’s right. Jung-bae is doing this for him, and instead of having faith in his friend, Gi-hun is here throwing a fit.

For the second time in five minutes, his anger withers away to leave an ugly pit of self-hatred. He wonders how much longer it will be before he loses the remaining threads of his sanity to this cycle. It’s starting to look like that fate will greet him sooner than he would have liked.

Unable to meet the Dae-ho’s eye any longer, Gi-hun stares down at his feet. His white plimsolls are covered in even more blood than before, if that was even possible. It’s his fault – he’d accidentally stepped in a puddle in his hurry to return to the platform during the last round and subsequently, it was becoming hard to tell what the original colour of the shoes was.

When the timer beeps, Gi-hun feels a small part of him curl up and die. Maybe, it’s the pitiful remains of his determination, shrivelling into a puny ball where it had once flourished – an adamantine monument of his patience. Maybe, it’s his hope.

Either way, it’s terrifying. It’s terrifying, because sometimes he feels like those two things are all he has left.

When the first gunshot fills the empty silence, Gi-hun can’t stop the image that forms in his head. This time, it’s of Jung-bae, laying in a pool of his own blood – a pool that Gi-hun put him in – and he’s not moving. He’s eerily still like Sang-woo was on that day, after the life from his eyes had faded and the blood on his face had been washed away. His friend’s face is a ghostly white – growing cold as the remnants of warmth gradually leave it, dissipating into the air.

That image could be real. Jung-bae might be just beyond that door and he could be dead.

“The following players have been eliminated.”

This time, when the woman starts to rattle out numbers, Gi-hun listens. A strange kind of numbness takes over his body as he waits. He can’t move – can’t breathe. The twenty seconds he spends with his heart in his mouth feel like twenty hours but then, just as quickly, they’re over.

She doesn’t say it.

Gi-hun inhales shakily as the relief hits him full force. He collapses against the wall behind him and closes his eyes, letting the sensation distract him from how awful the rest of him feels. For a brief second, it actually works.

He’s alive.

Dae-ho’s voice fills his ears, cheery and bright. He says what Gi-hun’s thinking – the beautiful truth that eases his panic.  

“He did it!”

Gi-hun rides the wave of relief rushing through until his eyes dart back over to the man standing in the centre of the room. Just like that, the feeling in his chest morphs into something else entirely. Young-il hadn’t stepped any closer since Gi-hun snapped at him. He hasn’t stepped away either.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this.

“Young-il.”

The man in question looks over immediately. Gi-hun barrels on without waiting for a reply, knowing he’ll back out if he doesn’t just say it.

“Thank you. You saved my life.” For a split second, he regrets it. Young-il doesn’t deserve to be thanked. They’ve all gone through far too much because of this man – this monster. If there’s anyone who should feel guilty, it’s Young-il, for wielding the deadly hand that has lured all these people to their deaths.

And then, Young-il smiles. He smiles and Gi-hun doesn’t regret the words as much as he should.

Despite everything, there’s a part of him – a weak, fragile chunk of his heart – that still clutches onto the memory of a kinder man. It valiantly rejects every burning stab of hatred in order to keep the miserable delusion alive and, worst of all, it wants to be fooled. It’s so eager, in fact, that it embraces every attempt of deceit with open, aching arms – without a care for the damage it will do to the rest of him.

It’s the same part of him that rears its head now, believing with pathetic desperation that the man in front of him is genuinely happy. That Young-il is here with Gi-hun, surrounded by blood and terror, and he’s happy.

When the lock on the door clicks, Gi-hun looks away. He doesn’t want to be in this room anymore, he decides.

Inhaling sharply, he musters up the energy to heave himself over to the exit. He reaches for the handle with shaking fingers and pushes the door open, grimacing as the sharp, coppery smell of blood instantly fills his nose. Looking around, he sees more and more cautious faces do the same.

Jung-bae is easy to spot, even from the other side of the large room. Gi-hun sees him and then a second later, they lock eyes.

“Gi-hun!”

Like he’s being tugged forward by an invisible force, Gi-hun stumbles forward. As soon as Jung-bae is in front of him, the other man pulls him into a tight embrace. Gi-hun rushes to speak, imbuing his words with as much seriousness as he can manage.   

“Don’t do that ever again.” Gi-hun leans back, trying to catch his friend’s eye. “Please.”

Jung-bae scoffs before replying. There’s no trace of regret in his voice, and the bastard even has the nerve to grin. “Eh? I risked my life for you and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

Gi-hun shakes his head. He’s thankful, but the thought of Jung-bae making more reckless decisions scares him. This time, they were lucky. Next time, they might not be.

“Thank you, but I can look after myself.”

Jung-bae just rolls his eyes.

It only takes a few minutes for the remaining players to be herded back onto the platform again. As the adrenaline wears off, Gi-hun feels the sluggishness in his limbs return with a vengeance. The pain prods insistently at his self-control, begging. Pleading.

He imagines how easy it would be to listen. To ignore all self-preservation in favour of laying down on the cold, hard surface below him. Perhaps, for the first time in a week, sleep might finally take him if he did.

He laughs, amused at the thought. He’d spent hours trying to fall asleep in a proper bed just for his body to find this blood-covered, spinning platform far more appealing.

“Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance.”

The platform begins to turn. The music starts up – a happy choir of children. The lights dance, illuminating a different array of faces each second.

“What do you think the next number will be?” Young-il asks innocently, jostling Gi-hun’s shoulder slightly to get his attention. Gi-hun considers the question, before deciding it’s a stupid one.

He already knows. What’s the point in asking?

As Gi-hun turns to face the man next to him, the lighting falls on the man next to him. For a fraction of a second, Young-il’s face is lit up – every small detail bared for Gi-hun’s perusal. As usual, he’s drawn to the other man’s eyes. The inky pools swallow up the light like two abysses, consuming everything in their vicinity.

”We will clap our hands and sing. We will clap our hands and sing. La-la-la-la-“

“Three.”

This time, the music comes to a stop sooner than he expects it to. Gi-hun feels his jaw drop open in shock as the harsh reds and pinks fill his vision, making it harder to see the face in front of him. Young-il’s still there, just within his reach.

Time to focus.

He whips around to the other three and shouts, gesturing wildly with his hands.

“The three of you, go!” Behind him, Young-il sees what he’s trying to do and steps forward, helping to guide the others off of the platform.

“Yeah, go! Hurry!” They listen, rushing to make their way to a room like they had in his previous life. For a moment, Jung-bae pauses and turns back – eyebrows pinched in concern. Gi-hun just nods, hoping the gesture is enough to ease his friend’s worry. Jung-bae frowns, but nods back eventually.

With the other three safe, Gi-hun tries to focus on his next decision. It’s hard to think past the wall of fog clouding his brain, but he manages.

The old woman. We need to find the old woman.

Next to him, Young-il lifts a single finger up and shouts. “One person!”

Gi-hun looks over at the other man and curses under his breath. How is he supposed to go about this without looking suspicious?

Before he can come up with a plan, a man stumbles towards them. His short hair is a mess, as though a hand had been dragged through it one too many times – likely from the stress of the previous rounds. His eyes are blown wide open in panic and he’s tall, very tall, but that detail becomes meaningless when the man sinks straight to his knees, holding his hands up to his forehead.

“Sirs! Please let me join you!”

Gi-hun looks down at the man’s chest where three numbers stare back. Player three hundred and forty-eight. A bad feeling collects in his gut the more he stares at the man’s face, though he can’t pinpoint a distinct reason why.

He opens his mouth, searching for some way to reject the young man. Unfortunately, he’s not fast enough. Young-il speaks first, frantic and fast.

“Okay. Hurry, get up.” Gi-hun slowly turns his head to the man in next to him, gaping in horror. Young-il reaches out a hand to the man on the ground and, without a beat of hesitation, the other man grabs onto it. Gi-hun feels the ball of dread in his chest scream.

“Wait-“

The word has its intended effect. Young-il whips his head to the left with frightening speed and Gi-hun flinches, caught off guard when he sees the expression on the man’s face.

Across both of his lives, Young-il has never been angry at Gi-hun. Even when he’s had every right to be – even when Gi-hun has lied through his teeth and Young-il has caught him – the man has remained the perfect picture of tranquility. Of impressive, unwavering calm.

Gi-hun’s not stupid. He knows that in this life, he’s been blunt with Young-il. Every time he stares at the man’s face, he thinks of everyone he’s lost to the Frontman’s cruelty: Sae-byeok, Sang-woo, Ali. He thinks of the hundreds of other people who had played alongside him four years ago – of the hundreds before that year and the hundreds after. He thinks of them, of their blurry faces and disjointed screams, and he seethes.

Young-il never reacts. He never snaps back. He never breaks, at least not in the way Gi-hun longs for him to. He knows it’s foolish to poke the bear and get mad when it doesn’t wake up, but it’s all Gi-hun can really do stop himself from going completely insane.

Except this time, the bear stirs. Young-il does react.

“There’s no time, Gi-hun.” When Gi-hun doesn’t move, the man reaches for the sleeve of his jacket and tugs him closer. “Don’t make this difficult.”

Gi-hun stares dumbly at the man’s expression – at each fascinating stroke of frustration – and feels a wave of satisfaction course through him. Young-il’s mask crumbles further, breaking away before his very eyes to reveal something raw, and it’s beautiful.

Like a robot diverging from its programming. Like a boat steering off course.

A warm palm presses against the side of his throat, rudely interrupting his musing. It’s Young-il’s hand – a silent warning. Gi-hun would laugh, if he could be sure it wouldn’t kill him. Just yesterday, he’d done the exact same thing to Young-il. He’d even placed his hand in a similar place, if he remembers correctly – right between the meat of the shoulder and the delicate flesh of the throat.

A dark, conflicted part of him wonders if Young-il is feeling the same rush of depraved pleasure as he did the day before. If, right now, the man’s breath is catching in his throat as his weakened composure fractures into a million, jagged pieces.

Gi-hun is curious to see, if he stays rooted to the spot, whether Young-il will do what he couldn’t. The thought is tempting, but Gi-hun’s not eager to die finding out. He finally takes a step forward and in response, Young-il’s hand slips away from his neck.

They follow player three hundred and forty-eight, who seems quite eager to take the lead. The whole way, Young-il keeps one hand firmly clamped onto the sleeve of Gi-hun’s jacket – practically dragging him. Gi-hun has to admit, he’s not a huge fan of this clinginess but, sadly, it’s not exactly the right time to complain about it.

As they approach a door, the young man in front of them slows to a stop. Patiently, Gi-hun waits for him to reach for the handle. He waits and waits, and then the blaring alarm bells in his head reach an ear-piercing crescendo.

Oh no. Oh no no no-

The next few seconds happen so fast that they almost pass in a blur. Gi-hun sees the door crack open at the same time player three hundred and forty-eight spins around. The younger man lunges with the agility of a tiger, clenched fist whipping through the air.

The sound it makes when it finds impact is awful – a loud crunch so resounding that Gi-hun can almost feel it in his own jaw. Young-il’s hand instantly falls away from Gi-hun’s jacket as he stumbles backwards, bringing both of his hands up to his face. Gi-hun chokes out a gasp and tries to follow him, panicked, only to be promptly pulled backwards by a completely different pair of hands.

All of a sudden, there’s another man behind him – one with a very familiar voice – and then, everything makes so much more sense.

“Woah, slow down there four hundred and fifty-six.”

Player four hundred and forty-two. Fuck.

Gi-hun spares a terrified glance up at the clock. The digits threaten to blur into one but, despite this, he can just about make out what the timer says. Ten seconds.

When the pair of hands begin to wrestle him into the room behind them, Gi-hun tries his best to struggle. He doesn’t want to go into a room with these two men. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to Young-il if he does, and that’s what really frightens him. Gi-hun has never liked uncertainty and now, it looms over him like a heavy, foreboding cloud.

What now? Will Young-il disappear? Will he become the Frontman again?

He can’t.

“Young-il!”

He sees Young-il lift his head and take a single, clumsy step forward before the younger man shuts the door. Player four hundred and forty-two finally lets go, pushing Gi-hun away with a firm shove. The man barks sharply across the room, addressing his accomplice.

“Kyung-su, block the door.”

The man – Kyung-su, apparently – nods. Gi-hun looks between the two men, trying to discern their intentions. When he finds his voice again, it comes out scratchy.

“What do you want?”

Player four hundred and forty-two whips his head in his direction before smiling. It’s not a pleasant smile – not like Young-il’s. It’s ugly, warping the man’s face so offensively that Gi-hun can’t help but grimace at the sight.

The man takes a step closer, eyes flashing with hatred.

“Do you see what your friend did to my fucking face?” Gi-hun darts his gaze over to the side of the man’s face. He does see, and he’s starting to wish that Young-il had kept going.

A loud beep interrupts player four hundred and forty-two before the man can continue. The lock turns with a deafening click and at the sound, Kyung-su finally steps away from the door. Gi-hun watches him move away, then rushes forward to look through the slit in the window, silently begging for a miracle. He doesn’t see Young-il amongst the remaining players, but he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Did Young-il have enough time to make it into a room? And what about the old woman? Gi-hun can only hope that the timeline has been altered enough that she found two more people, though a sinking feeling in his gut tells him that’s unlikely.

“Do you see him?” Player four hundred and forty-two sounds gleeful. Gi-hun watches a body hit the ground through the door and swallows. “Hey! Can you even hear me? Answer my fucking question!“

Somewhere amongst the steady tiredness pulling at Gi-hun’s limbs, a bout of energy emerges. He lets it guide him over to the other side of the room, where player four hundred and forty-two stands, gloating with the pride of someone who thinks they’re far better than everyone else. He lets it wind his arm back and launch a fist towards the man’s face – the side that isn’t bruised yet – and feels a rush of satisfaction when it connects perfectly.

The asshole falls backwards against the wall behind him, cradling his cheek. He looks up and glares before shouting, voice slightly muffled.

“Fuck! I’m going to kill you-“

Gi-hun takes a couple cautious steps away, already starting to regret his decision. The man looks mad – even more furious than he had been when Gi-hun had pushed him yesterday. It’s a bad situation to be in, especially considering he’s going to be locked in this room with player four hundred and forty-two for at least another minute.

The man in front of him recovers quickly and when he does, he dives straight for Gi-hun.

“The following players have been eliminated.”

The woman starts to list of numbers but Gi-hun is far too distracted to listen. He dodges out of the way of the man’s hands before they can wrap around his throat, and tries to make a dash for the far wall. Unfortunately, he only makes it halfway across the room. Arms dig into the collar of his jacket and tug, causing him to stagger backwards.

Gi-hun hits the ground and bites back a shout. For a moment, everything goes black. He can’t feel the pounding in his skull or the vomit burning his oesophagus like hot magma. He can’t hear the gunshots outside and the screams of dying men and women. It’s nothingness, and it’s bliss.

Then, he peels his eyes open and sees a tornado of rage leaning over him. A shiver shoots down his spine and Gi-hun feels everything – every piercing sound and dreadful sensation – come rushing back.

“Jong-soo!” Kyung-su, who up until that point had been quietly watching the exchange, finally speaks up. “The round isn’t over yet. We could die!“

Jong-soo freezes, as if he’s completely forgotten about why they were all in this room in the first place, and Gi-hun uses the brief moment of hesitation to drag himself out from under the other man as fast as he can. He manoeuvres backwards until his ass hits the door, which happens to be the exact moment his long-awaited miracle chooses to reveal itself - a loud click, directly in his ear. He flinches violently before turning his head upwards. The lock. Desperate, he hauls himself to his feet to reach for the handle, eagerly throwing the door open as soon as his hand is wrapped around the cold metal. He hears voices behind him, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Let him go-“

“Don’t you dare touch me, Kyung-su!”

Deliriously, Gi-hun scans the room. Doors begin to crack open; faces emerge. Gi-hun's eyes flit to each one, looking for the only one that will ease the tightness in his chest. His gaze lands on a man standing in a doorway about a dozen metres away. Young-il’s own eyes sweep across the room ahead, clearly searching for something.

Me?

“Young-il!”

Young-il shifts his head to the right, allowing Gi-hun to get a good look at the man’s face. In terms of punches, Young-il got extremely unlucky. Kyung-su had struck him in the nose, which had resulted in a pretty nasty nosebleed. Blood drips from his nose like a crimson river, reaching all the way to the crevice of his lips where it pools, staining the man’s lips.

Gi-hun takes a few steps forward, but it’s Young-il who clears most of the distance between them. The man arrives in front of Gi-hun and comes to a stop, poised and waiting for something. Gi-hun frowns, confused, before deciding to ignore the odd behaviour. He speaks, eyeing Young-il’s bloodied nose.

“Are you okay?” Young-il stares at him blankly, like he doesn’t even hear him.

“Young-il?”

Gi-hun gets bored of waiting. He reaches a hand up to the other man’s jaw, cradling it gently. He dips his finger into the trail of blood below Young-il’s nose, trying to wipe it away as best he can without smudging the blood across Young-il’s face. It sort of works.

For a fraction of a second, his eyes dart down to Young-il’s lips, where some blood pools in the corner. He thinks of wiping it away too, before releasing how weird that would be.

And dangerous, his mind whispers. This is followed up by a question, one he is far too scared to answer – Why? Why would that be dangerous?

Young-il’s expression remains carefully neutral the whole time, however Gi-hun can still sense the undercurrent of impatience that lies beneath his calm exterior. Gi-hun doesn’t know what exactly the man’s waiting for, but he’s quite content not giving it to him.

Over Young-il’s shoulder, he spots Jung-bae and the others approaching. Jung-bae smiles – a brilliant, blinding thing. Jun-hee nods, a sparkle of relief in her eyes. Dae-ho pumps his fist, excited.

“All players, please step onto the centre platform.”

Gi-hun looks over at the platform, feeling exhausted. They were over halfway done, but that didn’t mean he could relax. Not yet.

Just two more rounds. I can do this.

Chapter Text

Stepping back onto the platform is difficult, more so than before.

His eyes are drawn to the puddles of deep crimson splattered across the flat surface – each one the ghost of a person that, only a few minutes ago, had been right there. Had been alive, breathing and fighting with everything left in them, to remain that way.

By now, after three rounds, there’s a lot of puddles. They’re everywhere, like splotches of red paint clinging to a crisp-white canvas. The sight stains Gi-hun’s mind as much as the floor they're smeared across, inflicting a mark on him, so permanent – so real – that even when he closes his eyes, he can still see the anguished pattern in vivid, unwavering detail.

Though, it’s not just the hellish picture lurking behind his eyelids that makes taking the necessary steps difficult. Perhaps more so, it’s the dreadful weight of unshakable exhaustion.

If Gi-hun had been feeling tired before, it’s nothing compared to the fatigue that tugs at each of his limbs now. Occasionally, he’ll close his eyes for more than a second – a prolonged blink, if you will – and feel the cunning tendrils of sleep latch onto him. They tug sharply, trying to drag him under the calm waves of slumber and each time, he has to fight to peel his eyes open again.

As the seconds crawl by, it gets harder and harder to resurface. Gi-hun wonders what will happen to him when he goes under, slipping into the depths of unconsciousness. Will that be it? Will he be left to die?

Gi-hun’s not too keen to find out.  

He ends up back on the platform eventually, despite his struggles. He watches the old woman and her son step on after him, arms linked, and feels the tightness in his chest ease – a tentative warmth taking its place. Somehow, despite Gi-hun getting dragged away, player one hundred and forty-nine had made it. Gi-hun wonders if Young-il had anything to do with that, or if the woman had just gotten lucky.

Thinking of the last round makes apprehension stir in Gi-hun’s gut. As disastrous as the previous rounds had gone, they had definitely helped jog his memories, at least well enough for him to be sure of two things:

Firstly – the next number was going to be six.

Secondly – if this round plays out the same way as it had in his previous life, player ninety-five will die.

He has a plan but admittedly, it’s a poor one. It relies on having faith in the people around him, which isn’t ideal. To top it all off, last round had served as a slap to the face – a harsh, but necessary reminder of the reality of his situation. Gi-hun wasn’t just up against the rules of the game. No, he was up against the players too.

He’d been stupid to let his guard down, even for a moment, and it had very nearly gotten him killed. If he’s not careful, he might go and make the exact same mistake again.

Things are different now. I can’t keep hiding behind the comfort of what I think I know.

As the platform begins to turn, Gi-hun looks over at player ninety-five – at her wide eyes and trembling lip – and knows what he has to do. He’s not scared. Wary, maybe.

“Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance-”

“Six.”

As soon as the platform rumbles to a stop, Gi-hun whips around to the woman behind him. He reaches for her arm, grasping her sleeve loosely. Player ninety-five jumps and looks up at him, terrified, but Gi-hun doesn’t let go. He turns to face Young-il and shouts.

“Young-il, come with us.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, quickly diverting his attention to the other six. “The rest of you, find a room.” Player one hundred and twenty frowns, clearly confused by his decision. Gi-hun can’t explain his reasoning but thankfully, no-one has time to ask him to. Jung-bae whirs into action, taking the lead.

“Come on! Let’s try the red door!” He points to the side of the room before taking off. The others follow with a similar urgency, though player one hundred and twenty takes a second to make eye contact with player ninety-five before joining the rest of the group.

“Stay with them, Young-mi! I’ll see you in a few minutes!” Young-mi's eyes grow glassy with unshed tears but she nods slowly in reply. Gi-hun feels a pang of guilt in his chest at the sight, starting to wish he hadn’t picked Young-il to come with him but unfortunately, it’s too late.

Player one hundred and twenty rushes off to join the others, leaving Gi-hun, Young-mi and Young-il alone. Gi-hun can practically feel the heat of Young-il’s suspicious stare burning a hole into his temple, but he ignores it in favour of looking around the room.

Quickly enough, he spots a group of three people standing a few metres away. He recognises one of them from his last life – player two hundred and forty-six. It seems that this time around, the man hadn’t gone into a room with player one hundred and twenty and Young-mi during the third round, which was strange. Gi-hun doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought, however. A cursory glance up at the clock tells him that they have nineteen seconds left, so they need to move quickly.

Gi-hun doesn’t want to drag Young-mi like he did with the shaman, so he lets go of the young woman’s arm before closing the distance between him and the small group. Player two hundred and forty-six notices him approaching, eyes darting to the two people behind him before widening in understanding.

“Are you three?” Gi-hun asks, just to be sure.

The woman next to player two hundred and forty-six nods frantically and Gi-hun feels relief bloom in his chest. In the corner of his eye, he sees Young-il step forward.

“We should hurry. Go for the green door.”

Gi-hun takes a moment to thank whatever god might be watching over him that Young-il isn’t making any stupid decisions right now. Perhaps, last round had been a slap to his face too.  

Gi-hun nods, agreeing with Young-il’s instruction. As they all sprint towards the door, he makes sure to keep a close eye on Young-mi in particular, worried that his plan will suddenly crumble to pieces before his very eyes. Nothing happens, but the feeling never quite leaves, even once all six of them are safely inside the room. Gi-hun makes sure he’s the last one inside, in order to be safe.

The metal handle is cold beneath is fingertips as he closes the door – a searing sensation so similar to the icy rush of water he’d experienced yesterday. It contrasts pleasantly with the heat soaring through his veins.

Hesitantly, Gi-hun drags his gaze up to the young woman standing a metre away. Young-mi is frozen in place, staring down at her trembling hands as she sways slightly on her feet. Gi-hun looks at her face – at the wet trails glistening in the sterile light of the room – and feels the realisation hit him with the force of a brick, lobbed directly at his skull.

I did it. She’s here. She lived.

Gi-hun’s own eyes become inexplicably blurry as tears threaten to spill, a product of sheer relief. For once, he was able to save someone. All of a sudden, there’s no fatigue dragging him down towards the ground, demanding he surrender to the restless throes of sleep. There’s no steady, rhythmic thumping in his head – a beat so loud that he can practically taste the intensity of the vibrations upon his very tongue.

There’s only blissful calm and the vibrant beauty of meaningful change, real and marvellous.

When the lock of the door clicks and the gunshots begin to ring out again, Gi-hun exhales. His eyes flit around the room, desperately looking for something to distract him.

“Young-il.” Gi-hun says, a rough quality to his voice. The man in question turns his head to face him, a quiet curiosity to his relaxed expression. “Is it broken?” The question is vague, but Young-il seems to understand him well enough. The man lifts a hand up to his nose, hovering over the appendage carefully.

“Ah, I think so.” Gi-hun frowns, anger simmering in him at the thought of player three hundred and forty-eight. Part of him – a roiling, bitter thing that craves revenge – is jealous. Gi-hun has spent years thinking about driving his own fist into the man’s face, concealed behind an expressionless mask for far too long. He deserves that opportunity. He’s earned it.

What did that young man do, to earn the right to take from Gi-hun something he has fantasized about for four long, torturous years? What did he do, to earn the right to draw Young-il’s blood – a radiant sight that should belong to Gi-hun’s eyes alone?

“It doesn’t hurt. I’m just glad you’re alright.” Young-il continues, casually brushing aside his own injury. Gi-hun jaw clenches as he thinks back to the day before, hunched over a sink with the man’s hands clasped in his own, washing away the aftermath of player four hundred and forty-two’s desperate attempts at escape. There were so many scratches – skin had been torn away, for god’s sake. Young-il had tried to brush those injuries aside, too.

Gi-hun scoffs, disgusted at Young-il’s blatant attempt to appear empathetic. If there’s one thing Gi-hun can commend the man for, it’s his commitment to the act.

‘I’m just glad you’re alright.’

Bullshit.

“I’m fine.” At such a clipped response, most people would back down. Unfortunately, it seems as though Young-il is not the kind of man that likes to back down from a challenge, even one as mundane as this. He steps closer, refusing to let Gi-hun’s attention slip out of his grasp.

“Do you feel nauseous?” Young-il asks. Out of curiosity, Gi-hun humours him with a slow nod, curious as to what the man’s intentions are. Young-il continues.

“Humming might help.” Gi-hun blinks blankly, motivating the man to explain. “It suppresses the gag reflex.”

Gi-hun searches for something to say to that and comes up short. It’s a strangely considerate piece of advice, delivered so earnestly that for a fraction of a second, Gi-hun almost believes that it might be coming from a place of genuine concern. What a ridiculous thought.

No, it seems far more likely to be another futile attempt to gain Gi-hun’s trust. He’s being strangely direct about it this time around, but that could be for a variety of different reasons.

Maybe, Young-il can tell that, despite his commendable efforts, he’s under Gi-hun’s scrutiny. If that’s the case, he’s most likely trying to overcompensate with all these smiles and gentle touches to keep his identity concealed.

Or, maybe, it only appears as though Young-il is being kinder. Maybe, it's Gi-hun who has changed. This time around, the asshole’s farce has crumbled away so easily under the lens of the truth.  

Either way, Gi-hun hates the man’s superficial attempts to strengthen their relationship. There’s nothing left to strengthen, not anymore.

Luckily, he’s saved from having to find a suitable reply by the loud crackle of the PA system. He looks up at the ceiling and listens intently, curiosity piqued.

“The following players have been eliminated.”

If Young-mi made it, then that would mean-

“Player three hundred and thirty-three.”

Gi-hun’s eyes blow wide open in disbelief. He can’t have heard that right. Player three hundred and thirty-three, for all his tussles, hadn’t died in his past life. In fact, Gi-hun had seen him after Mingle with his own two eyes, looking very much alive.

So then, what had happened this time around? What had Gi-hun inadvertently changed?

The exhilarating high he’d felt from saving Young-mi withers away. His stomach begins to churn badly again as the rolling pit of guilt inside of him urges hot vomit to climb up his oesophagus. His headache returns too, each painful pang akin to an unforgiving stab, punishing him for another unforgiveable blunder.

All Gi-hun can do in the face of such an assault is grit his teeth and pray for mercy. As usual, he isn’t granted any kind of relief. Instead, his mind whirs away, thinking about the sequence of events that has led him to this very moment.

Jun-hee had never seemed to get along well with player three hundred and thirty-three, but he had still been the father of her child. What must she be thinking right now? Does she blame herself?

If this is anyone’s fault, it’s Gi-hun’s. Unbidden, his gaze trails back to Young-mi, shaking like a leaf with abject terror. A terrible thought strikes him.

It was never a matter of saving a life, but rather trading one for another.

The doors open eventually, letting them all back into the main room again. Gi-hun is walks through the doorway, a familiar heaviness in each step he takes. Immediately, player one hundred and twenty rushes over, voice cutting through the deafening stillness blanketing the tension-thick air.

“Young-mi!”

Despite everything, a warm emotion unfurls in Gi-hun’s chest as he watches the woman wraps Young-mi in a tight embrace. The two stay like that until the shorter woman pulls away, turning to face player one hundred and forty-nine. The old woman fusses over Young-mi, brushing the tears away from the corner of her eyes gently.

“How many more round of this do you think we have left?” Jung-bae asks to no-one in particular. Gi-hun frowns, pretending to look contemplative. His fingers tremble by his side, a silent testament to his nerves.

“This has to be the last one.” He says, chancing a glance over at Jun-hee as he speaks. Her expression is blank, concealing the tempest of emotions that surely hides beneath. Gi-hun follows her steadfast gaze, fixed with intense focus on a considerably large puddle of blood sitting lamely a few metres away. He swallows and says nothing, words failing him when he needs them the most.

“All players, please step onto the centre platform.”

Everyone listens diligently, dragging themselves back over to the red disk in the centre of the room for a final time. The woman on the PA system confirms Gi-hun’s ‘prediction’ once the last player has stepped on, a single sentence that has many heads whipping upwards towards where the voice seems to be coming from.

“Now, the final round may begin.”

Around the room, the faces of many players light up with hope. Gi-hun doesn’t let himself feel that same relief yet. Letting his guard down would leave him exposed, and with Jong-soo and his fucking crony still very much alive, that would be dangerous.

This time, as the cheery music starts up and the whole platform shifts under his feet, Gi-hun begins to hum along quietly with the music. Frustratingly, he finds that Young-il’s advice sort of works. It makes the pounding in his skull worse, however, so Gi-hun can’t really count it as a win.

“Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance.”

In the corner of his vision, Gi-hun sees Jung-bae lean forward into the gap between him and Young-il. He asks the same question as he had in his past life, word for word.

“What do you think it’ll be this time?”

“Two.” Young-il replies, without missing a beat. Jung-bae gives him an odd look.

“Why?” The other man doesn’t even deign to face Jung-bae as he slowly replies, gaze fixed on the coloured doors in the distance.

“There are one hundred and twenty-six people left and there are fifty rooms.” He finally looks at Jung-bae before continuing, tone morbid. “So, there won’t be enough rooms for everyone. Only for one hundred people. The rest will be killed.”

Jung-bae’s eyes widen as he registers the weight of Young-il’s words.

”We will clap our hands and sing. We will clap our hands and sing. La-la-la-la, let’s have fun dancing.”

Gi-hun pinches his eyes shut and tries to think. Last time, everyone had paired off so fast, it was difficult to remember who’d ran off with who.

Gi-hun knows one thing for sure: back then, he’d gone into a room with Dae-ho. Unfortunately, that couldn’t happen again this time around. With player three hundred and thirty-three dead, Jun-hee would need a partner.

Dae-ho and Jun-hee should pair off, that way they’ll both be safe. Then, I’ll just go into a room with Jung-bae. And Young-il...

Gi-hun looks over at the man in question. There’s still dried blood smattered across his lip, staining the soft flesh a deep red. The mouth itself is set into a serious line, attesting to an unusual sombreness. Young-il must feel the heaviness of Gi-hun’s stare, because it’s then that he decides to turn his head – a slow swivel that Gi-hun eyes warily as a strange emotion builds in his chest.

They’re practically shoulder-to-shoulder, a scant handful of centimetres between them. ‘What are we doing?’ Gi-hun thinks bitterly, for a lack of anything else to muse over. ‘Why don’t we just fight? Solve this the brutal, bloody way you seem to prefer so much?’

“Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring-”

Out of nowhere, the steady force that has been steadily splitting Gi-hun’s head in two – cracking it apart like the agonizingly slow erosion of rock – gets tired of waiting. The pain readies itself, and then strikes, breaking him open to leave him a gasping, reeling mess in the wake of an assault so unforgiving – so excruciating – that for a terrible moment, Gi-hun thinks that he’s actually dying. That finally, after dodging death’s grip time and time again, the spindly fingers of his fate have latched onto him for good.

He rips his eyes away from Young-il, trying to focus on something that won’t make him feel worse. It’s a mistake, of course. All he can see in the distance is blood – large puddles dotted amongst smaller ones. Puddles that someone has clearly stepped in amidst their desperation to get to one of the brightly-coloured doors across the room. Puddles that stare back, deathly still, and blaming him for their existence.

Someone says his name, or at least he thinks they do. The muted syllables resemble the word, though it’s become too difficult to tell anymore. The rumbling of the platform below him, the pounding of blood in his ears: it’s all too loud. The calm, soft lighting trickling down from above – the lighting he’d once praised as ‘kind’ – is suddenly far too bright.

Gi-hun realises in this moment, as he fights back against a tide of agony, what he’d give for a simple glass of water. His throat feels scratchy, like it’s lined parchment paper and when he sucks in a sharp inhale, the rush of air gets caught on the uncomfortable roughness. It’s another world of torture and, strangely enough, the cruellest yet.

“-Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring.”

In the end, it’s what happens next that does it for him. The platform jolts a stop, harshly throwing him forward. His knees buckle, folding like two flimsy twigs, and just like that, he’s meeting the cold, solid ground beneath his feet.

“Two.”

Gi-hun retches, but nothing comes up. The phantom ghost of vomit curls in his stomach – a brutal, thrashing wave – but, in the end, the only thing that crawls up his throat is a series of merciless spasms.

Above him, a handful of hurried words are exchanged, though it’s difficult to make out who’s voices they belong to over the cacophony of other noises grappling for his attention. Distant shouts fill his ears, each disjointed scream painfully bouncing around the vast emptiness of his skull. ‘I’m dying.’ Gi-hun thinks, oddly calm. ‘After all this time, this is it.’

When Gi-hun dares to shift his arm to hold himself up better, his fingers brush through a smaller splatter of blood, painting the digits in a sticky warmth. Under the strange red-violet flashes of light filling his vision, the substance looks black.

Oh.

Gi-hun feels like he’s heaving for hours, trying and failing to relieve the lump of pressure stuck in his throat. Finally, after what can’t be more than a few seconds, someone grabs him by the bicep, tugging him to his feet.

“-un? Can you hear me?” Young-il’s hands – two cold, firm palms – grip the sides of his face. Gi-hun squints in pain, struggling to focus on the other man’s face, but nods stiffly.

“Good. Let’s go.” Young-il loops one of his arms around Gi-hun’s, knitting their bodies together closely. The point of contact acts as an anchor, dragging Gi-hun back to reality as a dozen thoughts barrel through his head. The nausea doesn’t subside, but it retreats – a brief moment of clarity amidst a torrent of chaos.

Where is everyone? What happened to Dae-ho and Jun-hee? What happened to me?

Young-il leads them off the platform, an uncharacteristic urgency to the way he tugs Gi-hun forward.

What happened to Jung-bae?

“Wait-“ The protest gets caught in the barren desert of his mouth, withering away into nothing. Young-il turns to look at him but this time, instead of a flurry of rage, Gi-hun is met with something entirely different. Something far more intense.

It’s not desperation – Gi-hun knows better than to believe someone like Young-il is capable of an emotion like that.

“The others are fine. We need to keep moving.” Young-il tugs again and Gi-hun almost stumbles over his feet as he uselessly trails behind the man. As he stares at the back of Young-il’s head, the realisation hits him.

Ever so slowly, like the oozing of a very viscous liquid, panic bleeds out of Young-il’s frame.

Gi-hun considers what would happen if he pulled himself out of the vice-like grip Young-il has on his arm and resisted this with all the strength he has left. Would Young-il beg for his compliancy? Would he finally get to see that panic erupt, metamorphosising into a violent upsurge of fear that can’t be concealed by the flimsy cover of a fake identity?

Gi-hun wants to know. He needs to know.

He wonders, in a bout of fascination, if Young-il would clutch at his limp, dying body again, just like he’d done in Gi-hun’s last life. He wonders if he’d get to hear another rare curse fall from the other man’s lips as his composure cracks, crumbling away to reveal raw honesty Gi-hun has been desperate to see since the very moment he woke up three days ago, a new man in a new body.

His reckless delirium almost pushes him to find out – to pull away and let the events play out.

But, where would that leave them? Where would that leave him?

There’s a possibility that he would be taken back to that very first day again. The mere thought almost has him keeling over once more. Gi-hun doesn’t think he could live through those first three days again, not without doing something stupid. Up until this point, everything had been going so well – almost too well – and Gi-hun very much doubted he’d be able to replicate this success again, not without losing his mind along the way.  

Alternatively, he might just… die. Be taken to that nice place with his mother and Sang-woo, just like he should have the first time.

But that would mean leaving all of this behind. Gi-hun isn’t ready to do that, not when there’s still so much he can do for the people around him. For Jung-bae, Jun-hee and Dae-ho. He has to live – he wants to live – for them.

So, he clamps his mouth shut. He lets himself be pulled across the room by Young-il despite the way his vision swims and his head pounds, begging for the sweet relief of slumber. He puts his life in the hands of the man in front of him and hopes that this time, it means something.

They’re almost at the door when things take a turn for the worst.

Gi-hun doesn’t see the pair of hands that reach for him, but he feels them. Fingers thread through his hair, parting the short strands, before he’s roughly thrown backwards. Time seems to slow as he falls backwards, crashing onto the hard ground beneath him with a broken gasp. For the second time, he blacks out but this time around, it’s not the rush of bliss it had been before.

Gi-hun can’t see anything. Everything around him sounds muffled and distorted, like he’s suddenly been plunged underwater. The only thing he can smell is the acrid malodour of fresh blood, sharp and coppery. It’s not his, not yet, so it must be someone else’s.

When he opens his eyes, everything is brighter and louder than before. He successfully hauls himself into a sitting position and tries to focus on the scene in front of him. There’s a new ache in his lower back where he must have collided with the floor. His whole body, from his ankles up to his head, hurts.

A few metres away, Young-il grapples for a player trying to enter one of the rooms. He’s strong – very strong. He manages to throw the man to the side like he weighs nothing before turning around.

Gi-hun shakily hauls himself to his feet and drags himself over to the door as he fast as he can. Each step feels like agony but thankfully, there’s very few to take. As soon as he’s inside the room, Gi-hun falls to the floor and pinches his eyes shut, curling into himself as sucks in shallow breaths of air that make his whole body tremble.

The sound of the door shutting behind him is a relief until he peels his eyelids open. Gi-hun feels himself freeze.  

Backed into the corner of the room, eyes wide with terror, stands another player. Not Young-il, no, a third man. Gi-hun’s eyes trail down to the three digits printed across the front of his jacket – a three, a four and then another three – before gravitating to what sits next to it.

A blue rectangle, blending into the green of his jacket under the strange orange light of the room. The swooping curve of a white shape in the centre, a silent confession of the wearer’s affiliation.

A circle.

There’s a moment of silence and then-

“Get out.”

Gi-hun shivers, the low rumble of Young-il’s voice effortlessly evoking the reaction. He realises in this moment, as he stares at the player’s horrified face, that he knows what’s about to happen next. Gi-hun can't move. He doesn't dare to. 

“We were here first-“ Young-il lunges for the man with the agility of a tiger. Gi-hun scrambles backwards, pushing himself against the door as a man outside begins to bang his fists against the door.

“Open the door, you bastards! I was here first!” Gi-hun hardly hears him. He hardly hears anything except his own laboured breathing as he watches Young-il throw his arms around player three hundred and forty-three’s neck. Young-il leans back against the wall behind him as pulls the other man closer to him, a forearm pressed against the player’s throat and a firm hand latched onto the back of the man’s head.

“Eight, seven, six.”

The two men slide down the wall, slowly sinking to the ground. Player three hundred and forty-three thrashes about, trying to pull at Young-il’s arms in a useless bid to escape.

“Five, four, three.”

Young-il finally looks up. Gi-hun meets his eye and promptly chokes on his spit, thrown off by the intensity of other man’s expression. Young-il’s gaze picks him apart; pulls him into pieces and peruses the vile, bloody mess with a rapt, unwavering wonder. Gi-hun can’t tear his eyes away – can’t even blink – because to do so would mean breaking away from that attention.

Gi-hun doesn’t want to look away. He needs to keep looking; needs it perhaps more than he needs a cold glass of water or a couple tablets of paracetamol to soothe the persistent ache in his skull.

The realisation makes him feel cold, like he’s back in that bathroom again, plunging his head under the icy tap water. It makes him feel hot, like he’s crawled into an oven and laid down to die. It makes him feel like he’s drowning and simultaneously gulping down mouthfuls of air.

Why? Why you?

Gi-hun hates him. He can’t stand the air Young-il breathes. He loathes everything the other man has done, and everything he will go on to do.  

“Two.”

The sound of bone snapping rips Gi-hun out of his feverish daze. The dead player slips out of Young-il’s arms and slumps, falling away like a ragdoll.

“One.”

The timer beeps and the lock above Gi-hun clicks, causing him to flinch violently. He has to shut his eyes again for a long second as the pain in his head flares up once more – a throbbing heat that makes him groan. He hears a dull thud from across the room that must be Young-il pushing the dead man’s body off of him, followed by the softer sound of footsteps getting closer.

Gi-hun opens his eyes to see Young-il crouching down in front of him. The other man pauses, as if to gauge Gi-hun’s reaction. He’s too tired to push Young-il away. He’s too tired to fight the tug in his chest he feels when the other man reaches out to him.

Gi-hun tips forward. His eyes flutter closed.

The last thing he sees is the blurry sight of Young-il’s face, eyebrows pinched together in concentration. The last thing he hears is Young-il’s short huff of surprise as the firm weight of Gi-hun’s head falls onto his shoulder.

The last thing he feels is two hands gripping the sleeves of his jacket, easing him into a more comfortable position.

And then, the world goes black.

Chapter Text

There’s something familiar about the smell of blood, In-ho finds. Perversely pleasant, once he’s gotten accustomed to the way the rich, overbearing stench of copper mercilessly burns his nostrils. The powerful odor settles down on his tongue and stays there, almost like the vicious red liquid has filled his mouth and he’s choking on it.

In-ho brings his eyes up from the ground. He spares a cursory glance around the room, thinking quietly to himself.

Slowly, like ants flocking to the sweet scent of sugar, green tracksuits flock back to the platform at the centre of the room. In the air, a distinct, foreboding silence settles that no-one – not even the troublemaker with the vibrant, purple hair – dares to cut through. Perhaps, these people do so out of fear of some unknown consequence, lurking somewhere out of sight. Maybe, they do so simply because the eerie stillness feels far too delicate to carelessly break.

In-ho masquerades as one of those ants, silently appreciating – savouring – the suffocating atmosphere that presses against his warm skin. It’s perfect.

As he steps onto the platform, he thinks about what the next few minutes might entail. There’s only one more round left, and it will undoubtedly be the most decisive of all. The number will be two, and just like that, the mural of agony beneath his feet will be complete. In-ho has been looking forward to it.

At least, that’s what he thinks he felt when he first stepped into the room earlier. Excitement, in the only form he knows it nowadays – a manic, violent surge that does something to fill the numb emptiness hollowing out his chest.

Oh Il-nam had been right. Watching quietly behind the safety of a glass screen simply couldn’t compare to the real thing – to standing amongst these players, shoulder to shoulder, as the heavy stench of their fear permeates the air.

‘I know that I’m not going to have as much fun watching as playing.’

Il-nam had smiled as he’d spoken those words, a warm spark of content glinting in his eyes. Back then, In-ho hadn’t known how to respond. Despite that, the man’s words had stuck with him for a long time. They’d taken root in his head, sprouting into a reckless, foolish idea that was now going to be his ruination.

How ironic. In-ho had been too curious – lured like a mindless sheep, no smarter than the horde of players around him. He’d allowed a moment of rashness to quietly evolve into something far more sinister. Something dangerous.

“Now, the final round may begin.”

The dark swirling pool in In-ho’s gut grows more turbulent. It’s not anger this time, though a sizable amount of frustration still claws at his judgement, begging for him to abandon his sensibility. There will be plenty of time to listen, but that time certainly isn’t now.

No, it’s quite different, this feeling. Cold. Slow in its approach, but undeniably present nonetheless.

In-ho had felt the same pressing apprehension a long time ago, back when he was a different man. Many things have changed since then – the games, the rules, the people around him – and yet, underneath the thin veil of such changes, everything is just like he remembers. In-ho hates it. He feels as though he’s slowly reverting back into the man he was then – one as dumb and misguided as the fools around him now.

“Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance.”

As the music starts up for a final time, In-ho feels the spark of annoyance licking away at his patience swell into something nastier. He’s heard this cheerful tune too many times. Prompted by the feeling in his gut, he impulsively turns his head.

His eyes lock onto Gi-hun, finding purchase like a hawk digging its talons into its prey. In-ho’s attention is quickly drawn downwards, down and down until it reaches the tense line of Gi-hun’s tightly-clenched jaw. He finds it impossible to tear his gaze away from once it has settled there, but he finds he does not mind. In-ho stares. He appreciates the sight for a long moment and feels the swirling pit inside of him ease, if only a little.

In-ho wonders, not for the first time, what has happened in the past four years to sharpen the soft, malleable edges of the man next to him. Gi-hun’s more serious now. More sombre. He seldom smiles, which is perhaps the thing that surprises In-ho the most. Four years ago, Gi-hun had smiled as easily as he’d breathed.

Now, In-ho can hardly coax a twitch from the corner of the other man’s lips. It’s almost like the ability to do so has been torn away from him. Like he can’t.

That was… undoubtedly In-ho’s fault.

It must have been that very final game – that final, fateful win – that had done it in the end. That day, Gi-hun had lost so much: his childhood friend, his mother. His silly rose-tinted glasses, concealing the cruelty of the world in fantastical delusions of virtue. One after another, blow after blow, intended to knock him down so he wouldn’t get back up again.

Yet, despite his efforts, In-ho hadn’t been able to rob him of everything. He hadn’t been able to extinguish the righteous fire out of Gi-hun’s eyes, and it was this exact failure that had brought the man back here, four years later. Had brought them both back, it seems, to relive the boundless horrors they’d narrowly escaped.

Still, despite that day in the rain, In-ho can’t help but feel curious.

He’s curious, as to whether the naïve, gullible Gi-hun he remembers so fondly is still in there somewhere, tucked away in some small, guarded corner. Intrigue courses through In-ho at the mere thought. If he is, then what would In-ho need to do to dig him out again?

Though, it doesn’t matter if he can’t. This new, serious Gi-hun has shown to be equally as naïve as his predecessor, if not more so. He still believes that there’s a chance to play hero here – to free these people from their gruesome, bloody fates as if the lives they’ll be returning to will be any less unforgiving. In any case, Gi-hun is going to need more than a miracle to make that happen, especially now that In-ho is here to keep him in line.

In-ho doesn’t understand it, but he wants to. He wants to take Gi-hun’s brain in his hands to pick apart, until he knows the man’s desires, motivations and goals as well as his own. What motivates him to persist? What would he do next, if he were to achieve what he came here to do?

Unfortunately, he’s not given time to entertain these questions for long. When Jung-bae unceremoniously pokes his head through the gap between his and Gi-hun’s bodies, In-ho is forced to answer his stupid question. Gi-hun clearly isn’t going to; he’s grown quieter and paler over the past minute, as though his body is beginning to shut down against his will. He looks so out of it, in fact, that In-ho suspects he might not have even heard Jung-bae at all.

Some of the delirious excitement wound up like a coil within In-ho’s chest begins to sour.

If Gi-hun dies, this will have meant nothing. It will ruin everything In-ho has been carefully orchestrating for days. It will rob him of the magnificent display that he’s been anticipating for years.

No, Gi-hun’s supposed to stay alive so he can burn up in a violent, colourful mess of emotion. That is In-ho’s gift to him – a fate as glorious as the man it belongs to. It would be a waste, to let Gi-hun die in the same way as the insignificant flesh around him. In-ho doesn’t intend to punish him with that kind of disrespect. He never has, and never will.

“-Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring.”

In-ho is so lost in the winding maze of his own thoughts that the clunk beneath his feet almost catches him off guard. A moment drags by, and then-

“Two.”

The woman says the number and the room erupts with noise. In-ho turns his head just in time to watch Gi-hun crumple, knees colliding with the surface below with enough force to bruise. The other man’s hands shoot out in an instant to hold himself up as he coughs – a sound swallowed up by the hum of chaos around them. He’s retching, In-ho realises. Probably trying to throw up, though it’s quite unlikely that there’s anything left in Gi-hun’s stomach that would make that possible.

In-ho watches, transfixed, as the man convulses. He can’t move. Can’t breathe. For a second – a fleeting, slow second where nothing, not even the ground beneath his feet, feels real – In-ho thinks he might join him.

In-ho has thought often about the nature of his inexorable, and no doubt looming, demise. During long sleepless nights and stray moments of idle rumination, he’s considered practically every possibility: the when, the how, the where. He’s even entertained that Gi-hun might be the one to do it, wild with fury and lusting for any kind of revenge to salvage the battered ruins of his heart. It was an unlikely scenario – In-ho isn’t planning to die by anyone’s hand – but that didn’t stop the idea playing on his mind.  

Somehow though, he’s never pictured dying with Gi-hun, side by side. Dying together.

Suddenly, it’s all In-ho can think about – a graphic, gory scene where they are both lying on the floor, covered in each other’s blood. Their warm, crimson liquid would mix, like a messy melding of souls, making it impossible to discern whose blood is whose. In that moment, it wouldn’t matter. In that moment, the two of them would be one.

“Young-il!”

A hand grasps his shoulder, causing him to turn his body towards the voice calling his name. It’s Jung-bae. In-ho observes the empty space around them and notices that Dae-ho and Jun-hee are nowhere to be seen.

They must have paired off together.

Jung-bae shifts on his feet, looking at something over In-ho’s shoulder. Looking at Gi-hun. In-ho sees the decision take shape behind Jung-bae’s eyes before he speaks, voice as shaky as In-ho’s ever heard it.

“Go with him.”

In-ho opens his mouth and speaks without thinking, almost like someone else had placed the words upon his tongue. It’s unpleasant.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

Jung-bae nods, but In-ho can feel the trepidation emanating from the man in front of him. Absentmindedly, he shoots his gaze up to the clock on the wall.

Twenty-one seconds.

In-ho stutters into action. He reaches down and hauls Gi-hun to his feet, relishing in the way the other man wobbles, tipping straight into his arms. In-ho forces himself to pull back, swiftly diverting his hands to the man’s face to get his attention. Gi-hun feels like ice beneath his fingers – a frigid sculpture of quiet beauty.

“Gi-hun? Can you hear me?” In-ho raises his voice, hoping to startle the other man into a reasonable state of lucidity. Luckily, it works. Gi-hun clumsily nods, the haze in his eyes clearing slightly.

“Good. Let’s go.” In-ho grabs Gi-hun by the arm and steps off of the platform. Around them, the shouts and screams of other players intensifies as desperation begins to sink in for anyone still in the main room. It’s vicious. Animalistic.

In-ho turns to look over his shoulder at the throng of people behind them. Jung-bae’s gone.

Out of the corner of In-ho’s eye, he spots two people engaged in a fierce struggle. One of them – a short woman with dishevelled black hair – tries her best to lock both of her arms around the other person’s waist. Unfortunately, she can’t hold on tight enough. The red-pink strobe lighting dances, illuminating the wetness staining her cheeks as she’s thrown to the ground.

In-ho turns away and blinks, trying to dispel the crying woman’s face from his mind. He yanks Gi-hun along more insistently, perhaps a little rougher than he intends.

“Wait-“ Gi-hun protests, trying to weakly tug In-ho backwards like a rebellious child. For the first time, In-ho realises his heart – the useless, lame thing in his chest that has long since settled into a slow, steady rhythm – is racing. It’s beating with so much force, in fact, that it hurts.

Part of him loves it. He’s grown so used to the aching banality of routine: get up, shower, get dressed, eat. Going through the motions like a robot is easy, yes, but that didn’t mean it was fulfilling. Living like that – in a cold, dark lonely pit with nothing but the company of his own regrets – felt more like surviving, really.

In-ho used to think coming back here once a year did something to fill that hole. That getting to watch hundreds upon hundreds of people make the same mistake that he did, and pay the price in the most simple, irreparable way, was a salve to the aching wound his wife and unborn child had left.

Now, In-ho’s beginning to wonder if this chaos and bloodshed had also become a dull, lifeless routine. When was the exact moment that happened? Was it in this very moment, as he feels himself toppling over the edge, back into the pitiful depths of endless boredom? Was it when Gi-hun barrelled into his life, shaking – no, shattering – the foundations of his very being?

Was it when Oh Il-nam presented him the dagger and In-ho, back then an empty husk that barely qualified for a man, willingly accepted it with little hesitation? Was it when he drove the sharpened item of despair into the neck of that players and watched, mad from sleeplessness, as a steady stream of red liquid flowed out of him?

(He can still feel the heat that had burned his fingers that day. He still knows the shaking of hands as he pulled the dagger back out and drove it into the chest beneath him, over and over again. He still remembers the fear, the desperation, that had driven him to do it.)

In-ho isn’t sure when it happened, but he doesn’t think it matters that much. All he knows is that he prefers this. Prefers the intoxicating rush of adrenaline lighting a fire in his veins that burns – sears – the parts of him that have laid dormant for so long. Prefers being at the very heart of what he has silently watched over for a decade now, seeing the anguish up close, feeling the heady weight of other people’s panic so acutely that he almost feels the same way they do.

And then of course, the star of the show: Seong Gi-hun. The man’s red-hot passion and the spectacle of his suffering captivates In-ho like nothing else ever could, which is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. He’ll miss this, when it’s gone.

“The others are fine. We need to keep moving.” In-ho insists, almost begging.

Before In-ho can stop himself, he’s thinking about what he’d do if Gi-hun refused to comply. When he trails his gaze across the face in front of him and notes the glassy, far-off look in Gi-hun’s eye, he realises that there’s a good chance the man might. Delirious from sickness and exhaustion – and quite possibly dehydrated too, when In-ho thinks about it – Gi-hun’s clearly not thinking straight. If at all.

In this state, the man wouldn’t go out in a blinding, beautiful explosion of defiance. He’d wilt away like a sad, crumpled flower and all In-ho would be able to do is watch it happen.

What a waste.

Luckily, that’s not what happens. Gi-hun pauses for a long second and then shuts his mouth again. He still looks a little reluctant but when In-ho pulls his arm to urge him to move faster, the man has the decency to stop dragging his feet so much.

Satisfied, In-ho turns his attention towards the coloured doors in front of them. Upon assessing their options, he’s quick to come to a conclusion that makes his heart pound even faster: they’ve wasted too much time. Most of the rooms ahead were already taken.

Out of the corner of his eye, In-ho spots their only hope. A man rushes towards a yellow door, shouting to someone behind him, presumably his partner. In-ho looks around and sees him, lagging behind considerably.

Using his hold on Gi-hun’s arm, In-ho steers them in the direction of the door. As they get closer, he subconsciously loosens his grip – a mistake. One moment, his fingers are wrapped around the width of Gi-hun’s cold, but very real arm. The next, they’re wrapped around air.

In-ho turns just in time to witness Gi-hun collide with the ground and go still. It’s unnerving how quick it happens. The man’s body falls, sprawls out and then stays that way, as though each limb is frozen in the exact moment it hit the ground. In-ho’s struck with a strange thought, one that buries itself deep within the confines of his skull.

Splayed out across the floor like this, Gi-hun looks lifeless. He looks dead.

In-ho drags his gaze upwards. He sees the perpetrator looming over Gi-hun’s motionless body and promptly feels a tide of rage wash over him, vigorous and fast. He’d seen this man through the window of the door a couple rounds ago, when he and Gi-hun were separated. Back then, as blood pooled in the crevice of his pinched lips, In-ho had sworn to kill him. He’d sworn to kill both of them, as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

It would feel different from killing Gi-hun, though In-ho can tell he’ll still find great pleasure in the act. If anything, he might enjoy it more. These men aren’t here for a noble, righteous reason like Gi-hun is. Their determination comes from a place of unbridled selfishness – pure greed. In-ho has never respected that kind of drive. It’s unbearably ugly.

Worst of all, it encroaches on something he finds far more fascinating. It encroaches on Gi-hun’s selfless goodness, threatening to hinder it before it can flourish into the spectacular display it’s been gradually building towards. For that reason alone, they deserve to face In-ho’s wrath.

And they will. When the time comes, those men will be beneath him, drowning in red and begging for his mercy. For their mercy: his and Gi-hun’s. That would feel so right, In-ho realises. Both of them, side by side, expunging the depravity that oozes from this vile man.

In-ho’s entire body aches with want. It’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling to him. After years of living with this empty, bleeding hole in his chest, he has found something he’d like to fill it with.

Could there be a space for him by my side? Does this really have to end so soon?

A louder, more certain part of him answers, sounding suspiciously like Gi-hun. Yes, of course it does. It’s our destiny, to destroy each other.

Player four hundred and forty-two takes a couple steps backwards, satisfaction written across his face. He makes eye contact with In-ho and smirks mockingly before sprinting off. Player three hundred and forty-eight is quick to follow, sparing one last nervous glance over his shoulder.

In-ho pushes his hatred aside. He doesn’t bury it – he doesn’t think he can – but instead lets it simmer, burning hot and soaring through every inch of him. He turns around and lunges for the player clamouring for the door handle, stopping him from getting inside. Wrestling the man aside isn’t difficult, which is a stroke of luck amidst the mess that In-ho has found himself in.

When In-ho’s eyes find Gi-hun again, the man is miraculously on his feet once more. He is, despite how lifeless he’d looked mere moments ago, alive. In-ho throws the door open as Gi-hun stumbles over, body trembling from exertion. In-ho watches the man as he silently steps through the doorway, trailing his gaze from Gi-hun’s tired eyes, pinched close intermittently under the flashing lights, to the prominent crease between his brows.

It’s sickness, probably. Some non-fatal virus clashing with the intense stress Gi-hun has been subjected to over the past couple of days. No matter how ridiculous the notion is, Gi-hun still thinks he has a duty to fulfil here. That weight – the profound significance of hundreds of lives - is simply far too great for the man to carry alone, and yet he’s chosen to take it upon himself to do just that.

Why? What makes these people worthy of saving? In-ho can admit, there are certain individuals that he can muster up threads of pity for. People who have gone through life trying their best with the hand they’ve been given, only to end up here out of sheer unluckiness – perhaps a fatal lapse in judgement or a stray moment of foolishness. People who have found themself stuck in a hole they can’t crawl out of, each pathetic attempt sending them deeper and deeper.

But some people – the selfish, greedy ones driven mad by the soft golden glow of all the money they could win – do deserve this. They’ve dug their own grave, one horse race at a time, and now they were going to lie in it.

In-ho wonders if Gi-hun wants to save those people too, despite how different their motivations are from his.

Probably. And he’ll die like an idiot trying.

In-ho swallows, saliva burning his throat like acid. He steps inside the room, prepared to be done with Mingle for good. He has a lot to consider over the next few hours – plans to craft and a plethora of complicated emotions to permanently file away into the back of his mind.

Of course, things are never that simple. The second In-ho steps through the doorway, he freezes. Gi-hun collapses to the ground in front of him, but In-ho doesn’t tear his gaze away from the corner of the room to look at him. A dreadful coldness roots him to the spot, holding his tense body in place.

In one last fruitless attempt to maintain some semblance of composure, In-ho opens his mouth. It’s strange to hear his own voice – Hwang In-ho’s voice – after spending the last two days masquerading as a completely different man.

“Get out.”

The man in the corner flinches, but does not move. In-ho watches him attempt to straighten his shoulder defiantly, a motion that only draws attention to his trembling frame.

“We were here first-“ Something in In-ho snaps. Maybe it’s his patience, frayed thin by the events of the past hour. Maybe it’s the frustration that has been gradually accumulating at the base of his chest, swirling into a frighteningly volatile emotion. Whatever it is, it propels him forward.

In-ho lets his instincts take over, body and mind honed from years of hands-on experience. He tackles the man in one swift move, wrapping his arms tightly around the player’s neck so his forearm is pressed right into the swell of his Adam’s apple. Someone outside begins to bang on the door, desperately shouting something through the narrow opening.

“Eight, seven, six.”

In the back of In-ho’s mind, he knows that this will ruin everything. The mask he’s cultivated for the past two days has split along the most critical ridge and now, it simply will not hold. In-ho can practically feel it falling away, revealing the ugly truth that has always lurked beneath. Can feel the gentle, tentative thing that has blossomed between him and Gi-hun die, withering away into nothing but a strange memory of something that never quite belonged to him.

This whole time, every quiet conversation and gentle touch, it has all belonged to Young-il.

“Five, four, three.”

The man in his arms – player three hundred and forty-three – puts up a pitiful fight. In-ho’s grip doesn’t falter as leans his weight against the wall and drags the man down to the ground with him. Breathing calmly, he adjusts his hold slightly, shifting his arms into the right position for what he’s about to do next.

He isn’t sure why he does it, but before In-ho snaps the man’s neck, he looks up. He finds Gi-hun’s eyes as easily as ever and this time, they’re already firmly fixed on In-ho.

Oh.

In-ho’s heart soars. It beats louder than it has in years, the sound of his pulse in his ears drowning out the loud choking of the man beneath him. Gi-hun doesn’t seem disgusted, repulsed or angry. He looks focused, more than anything. It's not quite fascination but maybe, if In-ho's lucky, it's something close. 

Over the years, In-ho’s grown used to all kinds of attention from all kinds of people. Most commonly it’s fear, a wild and frantic rush of emotion that has brought some to their knees, hands clasped together and pleas tumbling from their lips. Sometimes it’s just indifference, often from people who pass by him on the street, unaware of the blood that lingers along the lines of In-ho’s palms.

(A long, long time ago, it had been pity. First, when he’d been fired from the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency – a job that, at the time at least, he’d genuinely loved. Later, when Ye-jin had passed, the stares had only grown more sympathetic, picking him apart like he was some peculiar animal in a zoo they couldn’t bring themselves to ignore.)

There’s been hatred too, albeit rarely. Gi-hun’s been kind enough to show him that one. In a sick, twisted way, In-ho thinks he prefers it the most. There’s something about the way it burns, the lick of excitement he feels when the man’s fierce eyes settle on him once more, that In-ho has quickly become addicted to.

He’d rather Gi-hun keep looking at him like that, than to stop looking altogether.

Though, he’ll admit, In-ho can’t say he minds how Gi-hun is looking at him now. Selfishly, he wishes for even more, despite how unrealistic the idea is. As In-ho’s grip tightens and the PA system’s voice rings in his ears, he wonders what it would feel like if Gi-hun was looking at him with awe instead. With reverence.

Wonderful. It would feel wonderful.

“Two.”

In-ho snaps player three hundred and forty-three’s neck smoothly, the man insistently going limp in his arms as the deafening sound rips through the room. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Gi-hun as the player slumps, falling into a messy heap on top of him.

In-ho swallows past the lump in his throat. His mouth suddenly feels unusually dry.

“One.”

The lock on the door clicks shut, trapping him and Gi-hun in the room together with the dead body. Gi-hun winces and closes his eyes. In-ho waits patiently for the man to open them again, prepares for any acknowledgement of what just happened, good or bad, but nothing comes.

As the gunshots start up, In-ho pushes player three hundred and forty-three away and stands up. He approaches Gi-hun carefully, keeping his steps light before dropping into a crouch a foot away from the man’s shaking body. For a moment, In-ho just stares. Takes in the pained expression in front of him, the twists of agony and creases of distress.

Wrecked and ruined like this, Gi-hun looks as beautiful as ever. In-ho can’t help but imagine the man in a completely different scenario, looking similarly to this but for an entirely different reason. Debauched and overcome by sensation suits him. It suits him well.

Gi-hun peels his eyes open eventually, though only by a fraction of an inch. He blinks up at In-ho, a spark of understanding lighting up his hooded eyes before his gaze shifts, darting around before settling on one of In-ho’s shoulder.

In-ho searches for something to say, but is cut off when Gi-hun’s forehead collides with his shoulder, dangerously close to the crook of his neck. In-ho lets out a sharp exhale, delighting in the feeling of Gi-hun’s body resting against his own. The man is cold, alarmingly so, but his breath is hot – searing – as it brushes against In-ho’s exposed neck.

At some point, the sound of gunshots comes to an end. In-ho grips Gi-hun’s arms and pulls the man closer, adjusting their positions into something far more comfortable. From the way they’re sitting, he feels the exact moment that Gi-hun slips into unconsciousness simply from the way his body spontaneously relaxes, melting further into In-ho’s own.

“The following players have been eliminated.”

In-ho’s only half-listening as the woman begins to list out a string of numbers. He loses himself in the feeling of Gi-hun’s body and the slow, steady rhythm of the man’s breathing, tickling his skin like soft kisses. This close, In-ho can smell what he’d struggled to yesterday, with the man’s waterlogged jacket pressed against his nose. Back then, there had only been a faint ghost of a scent. Now, the smell wraps around him – a suffocation so sweet that In-ho fears he won’t ever be able to pull away.

He's riding a high – a high he’s awaited so long. Then just like that, he isn’t.

“Player three hundred and ninety.”

In-ho goes still. The woman continues, moving onto the next number while In-ho remains fixed on the one before, trying to make sense of what he just heard.

Jung-bae? No, that isn’t possible.

Even as the last number is read out and room falls silent once more, In-ho does not move. All he can do is think.

Gi-hun had liked Jung-bae. Really liked him. It had made sense, considering their extended history together – decades of companionship, from what Gi-hun had told him. There was no way In-ho would ever have been able to compete with that, especially given how little time he had to work with. In the end, he had finally resigned himself to the fact that Gi-hun would always trust Jung-bae intrinsically in a way he’d never trust Young-il.

Now, Jung-bae’s gone. The idea doesn’t feel real, but In-ho knows it must be. He knows that when they step back outside, the brazen man won’t rush over the clap them on the shoulder or pull Gi-hun into a tight hug. He knows that they’ll have to return to the dormitory as a group of four, not five.

There had even been times over the past couple of days where In-ho had fantasized about something like this happening. Now that it has, now the reality has set in, he doesn’t feel the rush of gratification he had thought he would. He feels like he has nearly every day for the past decade – woefully empty.

In-ho hadn’t liked Jung-bae. The man rambled on about nothing and, when anything slightly inconvenienced him, he had whined like a brat. To make matters worse, he hadn’t trusted Young-il. In-ho had been on the receiving end of one too many suspicious looks to be oblivious to Jung-bae’s scathing opinion of him. It was unbelievably irritating.

So, what happened? Why can’t he muster up a slither of satisfaction?

In-ho looks down at the mess of black hair tickling his chin. He can’t see Gi-hun’s face from this angle, but he can imagine it’s the most relaxed it’s been since the man got here. When Gi-hun wakes up, someone will have to tell him.

In-ho will relish the sight of his reaction. He will, because that is what he set out to do. It has been his primary aim to break Gi-hun – to shatter the man’s faith into a thousand pieces. To show him his efforts mean nothing at all.

In the back of his mind, a small, pesky weed of worry: And if you don’t?

If he doesn’t, then In-ho is in too deep. He’s fallen straight into something terrifyingly unfamiliar, and if he can’t crawl out in time, it will swallow him whole.

Chapter Text

Around him, there’s nothing but darkness.

It’s so dense – so consuming – that Gi-hun can feel himself choking on it. It’s everywhere, grasping at his legs, crawling up his torso, prodding at his mouth. It hurts.

There’s a sudden flare of agony, somewhere he can’t pinpoint. His skin burns like it’s exposed to a naked flame, the fire melting him right down to the bone and distantly, Gi-hun acknowledges that it’s quite possibly the most excruciating thing he’s ever felt. He opens his mouth to scream, to beg for the feeling to cease, but no sound leaves his mouth.

The darkness takes shape, warping into thousands of tendrils. They wrap around each of his limbs, squeezing tighter and tighter until Gi-hun can’t feel anything at all. No pain, no fire. Just numbness. For some reason, it’s even more terrifying.

The darkness finds his parted lips, breaking through and flooding into him. Every corner of his body is conquered – no, consumed – by the cold touch. Gi-hun slowly feels his body blend with the space around him, becoming one with what is ripping him apart from the inside. He still can’t scream, but this time, it’s because he has no mouth.

In fact, he has no body.

He has-

…

.....

Gi-hun opens his eyes.

He’s no longer part of that wretched darkness, but something still feels wrong. As he gradually takes in his surroundings, the unease in his gut worsens.

Gi-hun’s sat down and there’s a table in front of him – small, with a crisp white tablecloth and two sets of cutlery. In the centre of the table, equidistant from both sides, there’s a plate covered by a silver food cloche.

Gi-hun looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Black fabric, constricting and tight, covers his legs. He’s wearing that suit again, the same one from four years ago.

What is this?

Gi-hun’s hands clench, fingernails burying into his palm deep enough to draw blood as he fights the urge to tug at the bowtie around his neck. It’s painless, like driving a knife into flesh that isn’t yours. When Gi-hun uncurls his fists, his hands are clean.

“Player four hundred and fifty-six.”

Gi-hun jumps. He looks up and sees him – sees the Frontman – clad in his usual attire. The very sight of him, comfortably seated across the table, twists Gi-hun’s stomach into a tight knot. For a moment, neither of them speak. Gi-hun’s body tenses, patience drawn taut by the sudden urge to lunge across the table. He wants to take that blank, emotionless expression in his hands and tear the mask off, revealing the face of the man who really sits across from him.

In the end, however, he doesn’t get the chance. The Frontman starts talking before he can do anything, voice warped by some sort of modifier.

“Did you have fun playing the hero?”

Gi-hun doesn’t say anything. He shakes with anger – fury – but when he opens his mouth to vocalize the feeling, he can’t piece the words together into a coherent sentence. He gives up, shooting a hand up to grasp the knife in front of him instead. The metal feels cold, unnervingly so. Gi-hun wraps his fingers around the weapon as tight as he can, a paleness creeping across his knuckles.

The Frontman doesn’t react. The man tilts his head back, silently appraising him behind the mask, before slowly leaning forward. He reaches for the cloche between them, lifting it up with a smooth flick of his wrist.

Nothing could prepare Gi-hun for what the other man reveals. He jolts backwards, chair screeching as it slides across the floor.

Sang-woo’s head sits there, looking the same as it had that day, hair sticking up and Sae-byeok’s blood smudged across his cheek. His childhood friend’s pale face is frozen in the same expression Gi-hun remembers – the one he’d been forced to stare at as Sang-woo slipped away, into a place he couldn’t be pulled out of again. Gi-hun had tried, but it had been too late.

“It’s your fault.”

Gi-hun stills. He finds it difficult to rip his gaze away from Sang-woo’s eyes, cloudy and unfocused, but he manages eventually. The Frontman is still there, but his mask is gone. It lays at the edge of the table, abandoned. Something in the air shifts.

“What?” He asks, horrified.

Young-il smiles, but there’s nothing kind nor friendly about the gesture. The man repeats himself, voice dripping with mockery.

“It’s your fault, Seong Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun flinches at the words, feeling them sink into him like daggers. He can’t stand to look at Young-il any longer – or, rather at this strange imitation – so he diverts his gaze. Sang-woo’s empty stare finds him once more, kindling that sinking feeling once more.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Suddenly, it’s all Gi-hun can hear. From Young-il, smiling too wide and tauntingly dangling the silver cloche between two gloved fingers. From Sang-woo, dead lips wrapping around the syllables in jerky, uncoordinated movements. From players that Gi-hun can’t see – a whole orchestra of voices that he recognises but cannot assign numbers to, let alone names.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

From its position in the centre of the table, Sang-woo’s head begins to bleed. A river of red liquid pours from every place it can: eyes, nose, mouth. Just like that, it’s everywhere – staining the tablecloth and spilling onto the floor.

Gi-hun blinks, and suddenly he’s up to the neck in it. He’s flailing in the heat, trying not to let himself be dragged under. In the end, it’s useless. Something grabs him by the legs and tugs him down, painting his vision crimson in seconds.

Gi-hun shuts his mouth, a futile attempt to stop the blood flooding into him like the darkness had. He can feel everything again and he hates it. Eventually, Gi-hun’s forced to inhale – to give into the unavoidable need for air – and as soon as he does, his throat his filled with blood. He’s choking on it. Drowning.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Gi-hun’s eyes sting. His lungs burn. The vital organ between his ribs beats with such force that Gi-hun wonders if it might explode right of his chest. He can’t see anything except red. Can’t hear anything except his own pulse.

Your fault, your fault, your fault-

“Sir-“

The pain stops. Gi-hun opens his eyes again.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

Gi-hun squints. His vision swims as he attempts to focus on player one hundred and forty-nine’s face. He must be back in the dormitory again, if the mattress beneath him is any indication.

“Is he awake?” Another voice, a different one, asks tentatively. As Gi-hun’s vision clears, he sees player one hundred and twenty take a step closer. The old woman turns around to address her, whispering quietly.

“Yes. Ah, Hyun-ju, could you pass me that?” Player one hundred and forty-nine points to something on the floor but from his position, Gi-hun can’t get a good look at it. Hyun-ju leans down to grab the item, before handing it over silently.

It’s a bottle, filled with a dark brown liquid. The very sight of it makes Gi-hun realise just how bone-dry his mouth feels. When was the last time he drunk something? It wasn’t yesterday. After Six Legs, he’d felt too sick to stomach anything, just like in his past life. Young-il had looked at him strangely as he’d handed his paltry meal over to Dae-ho, but the man hadn’t said anything.

Now, Gi-hun regretted that. He couldn’t drink milk, but a few sips to wet his mouth wouldn’t have hurt.

Player one hundred and forty-nine must see him staring at the bottle because she quickly ushers him into a sitting position. Pain flares through his head at the sudden movement, forcing him to pinch his eyes closed until it subsides. It does, and fairly quickly at that. Despite the nightmare, sleep must have done him some good.

Gi-hun accepts the strange beverage from the old woman’s hands with a hoarse ‘thankyou’. He lifts the rim of the bottle to his lips and takes a slow sip, relishing the way the cold liquid rids him of the lump in his throat. He lowers the bottle again and looks around, a question brewing on his tongue.

“Who-“ He pauses, changing his mind. “How did I get here?”

He’s not asking anyone in particular but player one hundred and forty-nine is kind enough to answer his question.

“One of the guards carried you back.” She looks over her shoulder at Hyun-ju as she continues, somewhat quieter. “We didn’t think you were going to wake up.” The taller woman nods in confirmation. 

“Are you feeling better, sir?” Hyun-ju asks, eyeing him with concern.

Gi-hun considers the question. To say he’s feeling ‘good’ would be a lie, not while each and every bone in his body still aches with a fervour that rivals any hangover that Gi-hun has experienced in the past. Considering his long history with alcohol, that’s definitely saying something.

That being said, Gi-hun’s happy to find that some of his ailments have miraculously cured themselves. Exhaustion no longer tugs at his eyelids and the urge to throw up is noticeably absent, though he doesn’t want to speak too soon.

“I’m fine. Where are the others?” Where’s Young-il, he doesn’t say. Over the past minute, his memories of the last round have slowly returned to him and now, Gi-hun can’t get what he’d seen out of his head. The sequence of events repeats itself over and over again behind his eyelids, becoming clearer – more detailed – each time.

Gi-hun swallows. He can feel his throat growing dry again, tempting him to take another sip from the bottle he’s still holding. It’s probably a good thing Young-il’s not here. If Gi-hun saw the man now, he isn’t sure what he’d say, or more worryingly, what he’d do. He’s in no state to fight like this and besides, violence wouldn’t fix anything.

What a shame. The things I’d do to have my hands wrapped around his throat, even for a moment-

Thankfully, Hyun-ju answers his question before Gi-hun can follow that train of thought any further.

“Dae-ho and Jun-hee are just over there. I can ask them to come over, if you’d like to speak to them?” Oh. They must have all exchanged names. Despite his current situation, Gi-hun’s chest feels warm at the thought of their group expanding. Allies in this place mean everything, and he can already tell that these people have kind hearts.

Gi-hun goes to nod and then pauses. Something feels wrong. Fine threads of dread gather in his chest, making him feel jittery as he goes to open his mouth again.

“And Jung-bae?” He asks bluntly, gauging the reactions of the women in front of him. Player one hundred and forty-nine’s smile drops at the edges by a fraction and at the sight, Gi-hun feels his stomach drop. No, it plummets.

The old woman glances up and briefly makes eye-contact with Hyun-ju. The younger woman abruptly looks away, staring off at something to the side.

No-

“What?” His voice sounds ashen, even to his own ears. Player one hundred and forty-nine turns back, a grim expression painted across her face. When the woman speaks again, her voice is carefully even.

“Dae-ho told me he was your friend.” She reaches out to grasp his free hand, squeezing it lightly before continuing. “I’m so sorry sir.” Gi-hun stares down at the white bedsheet that covers his legs. He isn’t sure who’s bed he’s in, but maybe that doesn’t matter.

‘I’m going to get you out.’

Gi-hun had promised. He had looked Jung-bae in the eyes and internally sworn to himself that they would both make it out. Gi-hun was finally going to pay off his friend’s debt using the rest of his prize money. He was going to pay Jung-bae back for every drink the man had bought him over the years, just like he’d always said he would.

If Gi-hun couldn’t protect the people closest to him, how was going to be able to protect anyone?

Your fault, your fault, your fault-

“Mister?”

Gi-hun tears his gaze away from the bedsheets at the sound of Jun-hee’s voice. The young woman stands a few inches away from the side of the bed, one hand resting over her stomach, the other firmly clenched into a fist by her thigh.

Oh, thank god. I don’t think I could have forgiven myself if I had failed her too.

Jun-hee’s eyebrows slant downwards in concentration as she slowly chooses her words. Gi-hun lets her, too numb to do much else but ready himself.

“...When I first got here, I thought I was going to be alone.” She starts, eyes trained down at her feet. Gi-hun’s stomach twists at her words. He remembers approaching her during Six Legs yesterday, while everyone was getting into groups of five. He remembers how no one, not even those with weaknesses of their own, had wanted a pregnant woman on their team.

When Gi-hun looks at Jun-hee, all can see is a strong woman who would do anything – would take on any obstacle, big or small – in order to survive. The fact she’s made it this far is proof of that astounding resilience.

Jun-hee continues, finally lifting her eyes up from the floor to meet his. “I was… scared. But-“ She looks around at the small crowd that has gathered around Gi-hun’s bed. Dae-ho has come over, as well as Young-mi and player seven. When Jun-hee turns back around, the young woman tries to smile. It is a small, fragile thing, and the sight nearly breaks Gi-hun’s heart.

“…I don’t think I’m so afraid anymore.”

Player one hundred and forty-nine sobs and grasps Jun-hee’s arm gently with a shaking hand. “Stop, you’ll make this old woman cry-“ From behind them, Gi-hun sees Dae-ho lift his fist into the air.

“Brother Jung-bae would want us to keep fighting, no matter what!”

Gi-hun lets the young man’s words sink in, feeling their meaning settle heavily in his chest. Dull throbs of pain gnaw at every inch of his body, attempting to wear him down further. To break him.

‘Jung-bae would want us to keep fighting.’

Dae-ho’s right. If it had been someone else, Jung-bae would have said something like that too. Gi-hun can almost picture the way he’d have said it, a glint of determination in his eyes that would’ve ignited a spark of hope in all of them.

Gi-hun’s blinks rapidly, vision growing blurry. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d been ready to die at the Frontman’s feet that day – had welcomed death with open arms, anticipating the sweet relief it would grant him. He’d lost, plain and simple.

Gi-hun sees now, the reality of his situation. Being given the chance to relive these past few days wasn’t a reward for his efforts, it was a punishment. The universe must have known that he could never have refused the opportunity to fix everything and now, it was mocking him.

I haven’t fixed anything. All I’ve done is make things worse.

Gi-hun feels a hand lightly tap his shoulder, temporarily distracting him.

“Ah, sir. Take this. It’s yours.” Hyun-ju holds out some food wrapped in aluminium foil. With a trembling hand, Gi-hun goes to take it. As he pulls back, his eyes fall on something that makes him freeze.

“You’ve voted?” He asks, already certain of the answer to his question. Hyun-ju’s eyes go wide, then dart down to the cross on the front of her jacket.

“Yes. About an hour ago, if I had to guess.” The woman replies. Gi-hun must frown, because player one hundred and forty-nine helpfully elaborates. “They skipped you. And your friend, actually. He’s been gone since we got back.”

Friend?

“Young-il.” Jun-hee clarifies, as if she can hear his thoughts.

For a brief moment, Gi-hun’s grief is overshadowed by another overwhelming feeling: frustration. Of course, right now, while he struggles to compartmentalize his emotions and steady himself again, Young-il would choose to do something unpredictable.

Gi-hun bites his tongue and stares at his lap. A memory rears its head, vivid colours jerking into focus behind his eyelids.

A rapt gaze, ripping him open like the arc of a swooping knife. The sound of choking, violent thrashing and disjointed gasps for air. That dreadful snap. A thud-

Gi-hun swallows, saliva catching at the lining of his throat. It would make sense, if that was the reason. Young-il had killed a man in front of him. Taken a life, with the ease and lack of hesitation of someone who was already acquainted with how it feels. The mask had fallen away for what couldn’t have been more than twenty seconds, but it was all the time Gi-hun needed to see the person beneath.

A few days ago, when Gi-hun woke up here for the second time, he’d thought he’d be content with just a glimpse. Back then, it was only human curiosity. A simple longing, perhaps a tad morbid, that made him yearn to finally lay his eyes on the monster responsible for taking everything from him.

Gi-hun’s had that glimpse now, but it’s not enough anymore. Innocent curiosity has swelled into something else, manifesting physically as an interminable itch that he can’t seem to scratch. With every side-long glance at the other man, the itch only grows.

Gi-hun can’t exactly pinpoint what the emotion is. It not a thirst for blood, though the kick behind it reminds him of the maddeningly-long years he’d spent fantasizing about killing the Frontman. While the idea of personally ripping the life from Young-il’s body still appeals to him, Gi-hun knows that at the moment, he needs the man alive. The lives of the people around him matter far more than the brief thrill of sinking a blade into Young-il’s chest. This isn’t about revenge – it’s about change.

Gi-hun thinks of his plan, or rather, what remains of it. Originally, things had been straightforward. First, he’d get Young-il to trust him. Then, once Young-il’s guard dropped, Gi-hun would attempt to tug at the threads of humanity that must lie somewhere deep inside the man, under layers upon layers of apathy. Maybe if he managed to do that, Young-il would understand.

There’s still a chance that might work. Young-il likes him enough, or at least he seems to. As long as Gi-hun keeps pressing the right buttons and making the right choices, Young-il might at least hear him out.

But, it’s slow. As the days pass by and time runs out, Gi-hun’s becoming tempted by a far more allusive idea. The same plan with the same goal, but using a far more direct approach.

As the reality of Jung-bae’s death begin to set in, Gi-hun can feel his resolve hardening. Up until now, he’d just been letting the days crawl by, and it had ended up costing him something he would never be able to get back. Clearly, playing the long game wasn’t going to work. No, Gi-hun would need to capture Young-il’s interest wholly and fully, by whatever means necessary. The other man was already on the hook, but that wasn’t good enough.

Gi-hun will win this game – a deadly dance of morals and deceit. He needs to win, for the sake of the people around him.

Gi-hun grasps the bottle in his hand tighter, then brings the glass rim to his mouth again. The liquid slides down his throat easier than it had the first time, though it still leaves a funny taste in his mouth. At least it wasn’t milk.

The others stay for a while longer, a distinct sorrow remaining in the air even as they move on from the topic of Jung-bae. Gi-hun listens quietly as they speak amongst each other in low voices – the hushed chatter a pleasant background noise to the buzzing thoughts flitting around his skull. During this time, he finally learns that the old woman’s name is Geum-ja and her son, player seven, is called Yong-sik. The two squabble non-stop, but it’s clear they love each over.

The more Gi-hun listens, the heavier his old, fragile heart becomes. He remembers a time when he and his own mother were just like Geum-ja and Yong-sik. As Gi-hun fell into more and more debt, the humour in his mother’s scolding had waned, leaving behind nothing but disappointment.

‘Have you been out drinking? I smell alcohol on your breath.’

‘Were you out gambling yesterday? At this rate, you’ll bet away all of our money on those stupid horse races.’

Gi-hun should have pulled himself together years ago. He should have tried harder to stop his bad habits because, even if he hadn’t fully processed it at the time, they hadn’t just been hurting him.

He can see it now, far too late: the heaps of pain his mother had lugged around each day because of him. It had been clear in her tired eyes every time they argued. Clearer still, in the grimaces she would send him when he came home late from the bar every week, woefully drunk.

Gi-hun hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself back then, but his mother had deserved so much better. She had deserved a successful son that she could be proud of, not a drunken gambling addict who regularly came home with a bruised eye and busted lip, pockets inexplicably empty.

What if his mother must had died on her bedroom floor that day, thinking she had failed somewhere? What if she blamed herself? The very thought makes Gi-hun feel sick all over again, bile burning the lining of this throat as he tries to will the nausea away.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Gi-hun hopes that Yong-sik doesn’t end up making the same mistake he did. Losing his mother had very nearly broken him, but if these two can get out of here together with some of the prize money, he thinks they’ll be alright. Gi-hun wants to help make that happen. He’d failed Jung-bae, yes, but that didn’t mean he could just give up. He needed to stay strong for the people around him.

...That’s something that would have made his own mother proud.

Eventually, the others decide to take their leave. Before she goes, Geum-ja points to the small parcel of food wrapped in aluminium foil that he’d discarded on the bed.

“Eat this, then get some rest.” She smiles, though her own expression looks tired. Gi-hun nods mutely, not trusting his own voice. Geum-ja looks at him likes there’s more she wants to say but luckily, she chooses not to vocalize it. The woman leaves too and then, Gi-hun’s alone once more.

Slowly, he sets the bottle down on the ground. He focuses on the parcel of food in his lap and begins carefully peeling back the foil, heart sinking when his eyes fall on what’s inside.

He picks up the fork with a trembling hand. Light catches along the prongs of the utensil, drawing attention to its deadly potential. 

In a few hours, they will have to fight with everything them. Gi-hun knows from his past life that Hyun-ju is a capable fighter, although he can’t be sure that the woman will be able to fend off a group of attackers on her own. He hates to admit it but if they were going to stand a chance tonight, they were going to need Young-il.

How ironic, that our only hope could be the man that trapped us here in the first place.

All Gi-hun can do now, as he waits for the hours ahead to drag by, is hope that Young-il will return. That the other man will walk through the bathroom door with an excuse on his tongue, the perfect picture of nonchalance.

Gi-hun won’t lose another person close to him again today. No matter what happens, he’s going to give it his all.

Chapter Text

“Lights out in five minutes.”

Gi-hun looks up at the clock on the wall, a bundle of nervous restlessness collecting in the pit of his gut. Above him, from speakers he can’t see, a gentle lullaby plays. The soft notes filter out into the room steadily – faint, but unmistakable.

In any other situation, the music would be calming. Gi-hun's eyes fall shut, letting himself imagine, just for a moment. He imagines that instead of taking him back a few meagre days, death had pitied him enough to take him back even further, before everything in his life had fallen apart.

(It’s late. Moonlight pools through the window on the other side of the room, spilling out across the carpet beneath his feet. He makes the short walk across his daughter’s bedroom and tugs the curtains closed, expelling all light besides the paltry glow of Ga-yeong’s nightlight. He steps towards her bed and leans down, almost crouching, to pull the bedsheet up until it brushes against her chin. Ga-yeong grins at him – all teeth. His heart swells with a warm, palpable emotion.

A lullaby plays from somewhere behind him, soft and sweet.)

Gi-hun blinks, slowly returning to the present. The lullaby continues to play, uncaring of his inner turmoil. In this situation, the melody only makes him feel restless. Knowing the bastards in charge of this place, he’s sure that’s exactly what they want.

He sighs, dragging his gaze across the room in front of him. Then again, he’s been balancing on a very precarious, very narrow ledge for hours. Everyone has been teetering, poised and waiting anxiously for the final push needed to send them over the edge.

It will come; there’s no doubt about that.

Gi-hun turns his head to face the group, trying his best to keep apprehension out of his voice as he speaks.

“Are you all ready?” He says quietly, looking around to gauge the group’s reaction. Everyone nods with varying levels of conviction, with one exception. Gi-hun watches the Young-mi grasp at her knees with small, shaking hands, heart clenching with pity.

From her seat next to Young-mi, Hyun-ju notices the young woman's anxiety. She reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Young-mi’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Young-mi. I promise.” The woman’s voice is low, but firm. Young-mi glances up at Hyun-ju’s face, pausing for a few moments before breathing in shakily. Her eyes flicker with uncertainty but finally, she nods.

Hyun-ju smiles softly, releasing her grip on Young-mi’s shoulder. Geum-ja says something – another encouragement, calm and measured – but Gi-hun lets her hushed words fade into background noise. Chest twisting into a tight, firmly-bound knot, he looks over at the small door across the room.

In the end, Young-il never returned. Even now, as the timer on the wall ticks down further and further, Gi-hun still can’t bring himself to face the truth. He’d been wrong last time. Last time, Young-il had materialised during the vote and all of Gi-hun’s worry had been frivolous.

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance.

Gi-hun repeats those words to himself now, believing them less with each pathetic iteration. The chances of Young-il walking through that door were waning by the second, deteriorating like snow in his hot, desperate palms. He’s left clutching a reality so dire, it instils a bone-deep chill in him.

Gi-hun bites his tongue, letting the sharp pain shake the drowsiness from the edges of his mind. He was still tired, but there wouldn’t be time to sleep tonight. With a heavy heart, he recalls the events from earlier, glancing up just in time to see the clock dip below the three-minute mark.

A couple of hours ago, a fight broke out in the men’s bathroom again. One minute, Gi-hun had been quietly listening to the soft murmur of conversation around him. The next, he was sitting bolt upright as the PA system list out a short string of numbers.

Even now, Gi-hun remembers exactly what the woman read out. He feels her words imprinted – no, carved – into his brain like an indelible scar he’d never be cleansed of.

One hundred and twenty-five, two hundred and sixty-eight, two hundred and ninety-nine, three hundred and thirty-one, four hundred and one. Five players, five men, killed in a bout of pointless violence.

When the prize money had climbed up a little higher, Gi-hun had felt it – a chilly silence descending upon the room like a veil of frost. He'd known exactly what that meant. Had known what unthinkably vile ideas were taking root in the heads of those staring up at the screen, eyes wide with what could only be described as awe.

It was all identical to how Gi-hun remembers. The same place. The same number of men.

Well, almost.

Strangely, there was one difference between this timeline and the last. After the incident, player two hundred and thirty – the eccentric man with vibrant, purple hair – had walked back into the main room with the other survivors. Someone else had clearly died in his place, though Gi-hun can't quite pinpoint who.

Player two hundred and thirty might be a problem later down the line, but for the moment, Gi-hun has bigger things to worry about. Regardless of who lived and who died, the fight had successfully prompted the fatal shift that would beget tonight’s violence. In five minutes, the tension between the two sides would spill over and the worst of the conflict would begin.

Sitting here, staring up at the wall, Gi-hun feels helpless. After he woke up and found out what happened to Jung-bae, he’d completely forgotten about the fight in the bathroom. As a result, another five people were dead.

Deep down, Gi-hun knows that even if he had remembered, any efforts to prevent the incident would have been futile. He would have only gotten hurt or worse, been eliminated. Even after everything that has happened, Gi-hun isn’t quite ready to give up yet. Not until he’s managed to ensure the safety of those around him.

His stomach churns as the clock on the wall hits two minutes. He can’t stop what’s about to happen now, either.

There's no point staging a rebellion like last time. The cost of that had been far too steep – at least a dozen lives, forfeited in a reckless, uncoordinated flurry of violence. Even without Young-il present to sabotage the plan, Gi-hun would have to be a fool to try something like that again.

But if they weren’t going to conspire to overthrow the fuckers running this place, it will leave them in the main room for the night. Staying here will be equally as dangerous, if not more so. Without guns, their only means of defence will be forks. Not only will a fork require more strength to use, it will also require them to overpower their attacker first.

That is to say, combat should be a last resort.

In the end, the best plan Gi-hun could come up with is to hide and wait it out. Of course, there’s still a chance that people might check under the beds, but it’s worth a shot. If they’re forced out into the open, they will have fight.

In the pocket of Gi-hun’s joggers, his own fork weighs heavy. The thought of using it on anyone makes his skin crawl with discomfort, but he tries his best to ignore the feeling. If the situation calls for it, he will have no choice. As soon as the lights go out, people would be looking for those they perceive as weak. The thought of Geum-ja and Jun-hee getting hurt – or anyone else in their group, for that matter – gives Gi-hun all the incentive he needs to arm himself.

“We should head to our beds, it’s almost time.” Hyun-ju’s voice frees him from the shackles of his own thoughts. Gi-hun looks up at the clock and frowns.

One minute left.

Gi-hun rises to his feet slowly. The action agitates the bruising across his back, making him grimace. His memories of Mingle are still a little blurry, but even so, he can remember the exact moment Jong-soo grabbed him by the hair and tugged him backwards. He must have hit the ground pretty hard.

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, Gi-hun begins to make his way up to his bed. Climbing each step feels like a Herculean task but he pushes on, keeping an even pace.

Once there, Gi-hun slides beneath the covers and lies down. As he lowers his head on the pillow below him, a strange calmness washes over him, unprompted. Staring up at the vast ceiling above him, Gi-hun feels calmer than he has in weeks. No, years. He’s still balancing – bracing for the fall – but now, the drop doesn’t seem to daunting.

Finally, the PA system blares through the room, drowning out the soft sound of music. Gi-hun subconsciously holds his breath, savouring the final threads of tranquillity in the air before they’re snatched away from him.

“Lights out in ten seconds.”

Gi-hun swallows sharply. The swelling in his jaw from where he’d been punched during Six Legs is pretty much gone, but when he clenches his teeth, he can still feel small ripples of pain emanating from the region Jong-soo’s fist had made contact. The small mocking bursts of agony serve as a potent reminder, stirring up a frenzy of vengeful emotion in him.

“Ten, nine, eight.”

The gleam of anger in Jong-soo’s eyes after the third round of Mingle had held a promise – a silent vow of violence. As soon as the lights go out, Gi-hun has a feeling the other man will be looking for him to make good on that promise.

“Seven, six, five.”

The frosty chill creeping up Gi-hun’s spine intensifies, coaxing a tremble from his lips. He turns his head to the side, managing to make out the small door across the room.

“Four, three, two.”

Nothing.

“One.”

Clunk.

The dormitory’s main lights shut off, dousing the room in warm saffron. Gi-hun locks his gaze onto the piggy bank and waits, feeling the tension in the air swell.

Clunk.

The money’s ethereal luminescence ceases. Darkness pervades the room, coating every surface until the only thing that can be discerned is the coloured shapes on the main floor. The blue circle and red cross glow, emitting faint light that cuts through the shadows that fill the space.

Gi-hun exhales, the eerie silence pressing against his cold skin. With a steady, unwavering hand, he reaches for his bed sheet and pushes it down to his ankles.

Sitting up slowly, Gi-hun keeps his gaze firmly trained on the centre of the room. Even from a distance, he can see the shadows take the shape of people.

As the horde creeps towards the other side of the room, Gi-hun slips his hand into his pocket. The stainless-steel fork there is cold to the touch. Icy. He doesn’t want to use it. The very thought makes him nauseous all over again, hot bile scorching the base of his throat. Even if he had no choice, it wouldn’t be right. Even if he had a good reason – an excuse – he still can't escape the words Sae-byeok had whispered to him all those years ago, into the air of this very room.

‘Don’t do it. That isn’t you. You’re a good person at heart.’

Even as she’d clutched onto the final threads of her life, delirious and distracted by pain, the woman had been as sharp as ever. As soon as she'd said those words, the weak foundations of his plan had crumbled into nothing.

Even to this day, Gi-hun isn’t sure what he would have done if she hadn’t stopped him. Would he have done it? In the moment, it would have been easy to convince himself he could. Promises like that, woven together in the heat of the moment, held very little weight. Even if he’d have made it to the man’s bed, what would he have done then?

Gi-hun has had four years to think about it. Since that day, every variation of the situation has played out in his mind – him killing Sang-woo. Sang-woo killing him. The pathways he’d nearly taken still haunt him now, reminding him of how close he’d been to painting his hands red that night.

Gi-hun pulls his hand out of his pocket, feeling the uncertainty in his chest grow. Below, the horde crosses over to their side of the room. The suffocating darkness around him is quiet for another moment. For some reason, the silence is strangely loud – almost deafening.

Then, like porcelain shattering against stone, the peace is broken. The group roars. A woman screams. Gi-hun’s heart plummets straight to his feet as the room explodes, flames of hell licking at his ankles.

Things start to blur, a multitude of different noises layering into one loud cacophony of chaos. Glass bottles smash, people shriek. Gi-hun’s own heart picks up, racing with a vigour that threatens to tear the organ from his chest.

It’s bad, but the worst part of it all is how familiar it all feels. Everything – each scream laced with terror, each smash of a bottle – aligns perfectly with his memory. The lights flicker, throwing the violent scene around him into clarity for half a second before everything is plunged into darkness again. Gi-hun begins to choke on a thick emotion creeping up his throat. He feels torn open. Exposed.

All of a sudden, a bloodcurdling scream rings out, unnervingly close. Gi-hun whips his head around and looks down, trying to make out the source of the commotion amidst the darkness. The lights flicker once more, revealing the features of a young woman’s face for a brief, bone-chilling moment. Gi-hun’s stomach drops.

Young-mi cowers against the wall, staring at something ahead of her. The shadows in front of her shift, revealing a person.

“Young-mi!”

Gi-hun looks down to see another figure rush forward, between Young-mi and her assailant. The lights dance and suddenly Hyun-ju is there, brandishing her own fork. The taller woman yells something to the shorter woman over her shoulder. Sobbing loudly, Young-mi immediately takes a few steps backwards. 

Suddenly, Gi-hun can’t bear to look anymore. He can’t bear to just sit here and watch. With a fire kindling in his chest – a fierce, inextinguishable spark of determination – he turns his head away from the action and scrambles out from under the covers. As his feet meet the metal frame below him, the weight of his decision settles.

Not allowing himself to falter, Gi-hun descends the stairs. With each step, the phantom ache in his bones fades, replaced by a burning urgency that spreads through him like wildfire. The adrenaline in his veins soars, numbing all other sensations to blunt points of feeling as the commotion around him becomes muted – almost quiet.

When he gets there, the first thing he sees is someone hunched over, breathing heavily. Gi-hun steps closer. Alerted to his presence, the figure’s head snaps to look over their shoulder. 

The lights flicker, illuminating the attacker’s face long enough for him to make out the distinct features of their face. It’s a woman, and from the sharp crease between her brows and the snarl contorting her lip, Gi-hun can tell she’s angry.

The woman yells – a high-pitched, furious shriek – before she surges towards him.

He dodges the prongs of her fork, backing up until he can feel the cold metal of the bed frame behind him digging into his spine. Before he can reach into his pocket to retrieve his own weapon, Hyun-ju rushes past him and jumps, tackling the other woman to the ground.

After a few seconds of disorganised scuffling and flying limbs, the attacker’s fork goes flying, clattering across the floor. The woman trapped beneath Hyun-ju's body cranes her neck backwards and watches it go, scorching fury wilting as a slow, dawning horror takes its place.

Gi-hun recognises that look. He’s seen it on too many faces this past week not to.

She knows it’s over. She knows she’s lost.

Hyun-ju reels her arm back, fork in hand. Gi-hun’s body itches to take a step back, to turn away from what’s about to happen next. The instinct – the pathetic, impulsive urge to run – doesn’t make sense. Young-il had done a similar thing mere hours ago and Gi-hun hadn’t wanted to turn away then.

Why? Why is this any different?

Suddenly, a familiar scream reaches his ears and his question doesn’t matter. It’s a horrible sound – the epitome of fear – and at the sound, Gi-hun’s heart stutters to a stop. He snaps his head direction in the direction of the sound and finds the space Young-mi had been standing empty.

Fuck.

Surging forward, he begins to frantically search for her. It’s hard; he can barely see anything and it’s still unbearably loud, making it difficult to listen out for any particular voice. He tries a different approach.

“Young-mi!”

It feels like shouting into an empty abyss. No-one shouts back. No-one screams or sobs. He stumbles past Hyun-ju and the attacker, heading straight for the wall.

As he reaches the edge of the room, a flare of agony shoots through his head, forcing him to lean against the firm wall, eyes pinched closed. As he waits for the pain to subside, Gi-hun finds himself praying. He prays that the others are safe and that they followed his advice as best as they could. He prays that all of this – the needless bloodshed and chaos around him – will be over soon, before he’s forced to do something he’ll regret.

(Gi-hun’s heard that when someone prays, they emerge from the other side of sacred communication with newfound certainty. With hope.

When Gi-hun emerges, he feels hollow.)

Delirious with panic, he feels along the wall with one hand. With the other, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his fork, squeezing the metal tightly to calm his racing heart. The utensil’s implication makes it feel as heavy as a brick, but he doesn’t let that dissuade him.

He’s barely taken a few steps when he hears it – a muffled scream. The sound is so quiet that for a second, Gi-hun thinks he’s imagining things. Then, he hears it again, slightly louder, and all doubt leaves his mind.

Young-mi.

He ignores every other sound and sensation grappling for his attention, moving faster. After a few more paces, he finally manages to discern the unmistakable shape of body on the ground, haloed by an ominous, dark liquid. Even from a distance, Gi-hun knows it can only be one thing.

Blood.

Unable to stomach the sight, he lets his attention drift towards the figure leaning over her crumpled, unmoving body. With their back turned, the first thing Gi-hun notices is a very familiar three-digit number printed across their jacket. He swallows, feeling himself go numb with rage.

“You-“ He begins, struggling to formulate a sentence that would correctly encapsulate the emotion blooming within his chest. Jong-soo turns around and grins wildly.

“Four hundred and fifty-six.” The man’s smile stretches further, pulling at the edges of his mouth in a way that makes him look deranged. He licks his lips, and continues. “You ran off like a little bitch earlier.”

Jong-soo steps closer, away from Young-mi’s motionless body. His next sentence is spoken far more seriously, low and dangerous. “I wasn’t done with you yet.”

“Is she dead?” Gi-hun asks, needing to know. If Young-mi is just bleeding, she might be alright. Of course, it will be difficult to administer first-aid with Jong-soo in his way, but as long as he can keep the man distracted, Hyun-ju might be able to get to her.

Jong-soo ignores his question, moving closer.

“Where will you run now?”

Gi-hun can’t see any obvious weapons on the man, but that doesn’t automatically mean he’s unarmed. It also doesn’t mean that Jong-soo can’t hurt him without one. Bearing this in mind, Gi-hun steps backwards.

The thunderous expression on Jong-soo’s face clears. Gi-hun steels himself and waits. If he can dodge, Jong-soo might unknowingly open himself up to attack. He should aim for the face, if possible. That way, the other man will be too disoriented to immediately retaliate, and Gi-hun will be able to slip by him to get to Young-mi.

The lights above dance, flashes of bright light filling the space between intervals of darkness. The man in front of him begins to move, eyes burning with murderous intent.

Over Jong-soo’s shoulder, something – someone – moves swiftly in the darkness. Gi-hun manages to tear his gaze away from them just in time to witness the exact moment it happens. Something silver swoops through the air in a clean arc before landing, right in juncture between Jong-soo’s shoulder and neck. The sound of the stab is considerably quieter than any other noise in the room but even so, it carries the grim certainty of a bullet.

Jong-soo splutters in shock, eyes widening. Before the man can react, a hand reaches up and tugs at the object at his neck, pulling it out again.

Jong-soo’s reaction is instantaneous. The man's hands shoot up to grasp at the torn flesh, trying to stop the blood from pouring out of him. Despite his efforts, it's clearly no use. The liquid breaks through the barrier of fingers, catching fragments of light as it falls in a thick, unbroken flow.

Eventually, Jong-soo moves, or rather falls. Still clutching his shoulder, the man collapses against the wall and stays there, writhing in pain. Frozen to the spot, Gi-hun stares, watching the confident man be reduced to nothing more than a graceless, trembling mess before his very eyes.

Unbidden, a heated debate is ignited within him.

On one hand, Jong-soo is simply getting a taste of his own medicine. He thinks of Young-mi, lying a few metres away – of everyone else that will die tonight, at the cruel hands of people like Jong-soo. People who had no issue with diminishing the value of human life into that of mere won, no better than the sick fucks that run this place.

Gi-hun despises that mind-set. He hates the people that play the games so obediently, uncaring of the true sacrifice they are making along the way.

But, it's not that simple. 

At the end of the day, everyone here is on a leash. They’re all being guided to give into their urges and play these games to grasp the rare, fleeting opportunity dangling right in front of them. One slip up – one absentminded mistake – and that leash will become a deadly noose.

Can these people really be blamed for that? Can Gi-hun blame Jong-soo for submitting so easily, when he’s been coaxed to succumb to his instincts since the moment he arrived?

The man against the wall makes an odd noise – a wet, unintelligible gurgle that’s supposed to resemble words.

No matter how Gi-hun looks at it, Jong-soo is just another cog in the machine. Another player who has been brought here to fight for his life, just like the rest of them. His death isn’t going to fix anything. It will only reinforce everything Gi-hun has sworn to dismantle.

Gi-hun tears his gaze away from Jong-soo’s convulsing body. As he slides his attention over to the mysterious figure, he wraps his fingers tighter around his weapon, mustering up the concentration he’ll need to face his new opponent. From what he’s just seen, it wasn’t going to be a long fight. Even so, Gi-hun refuses to go down without one. He won’t give those fuckers – won’t give Young-il – the satisfaction of watching him die, quiet and subdued.

However, much to his surprise, the person in front of him doesn’t lunge for him. They take a slow, measured step closer, giving him a better look at their face.

Oh.

Relief washes over him through cracks of stress and fissures of terror. Instinctually, Gi-hun’s shoulders drop, the tension in them dissipating.

Under the room’s stuttering lights, Young-il exudes the quiescent beauty of a painting. Gi-hun’s eyes dart around, unsure where to look, before settling on the main thing grappling for his attention – a heavy smattering of blood glinting in the sharp, blinding light of the room. The ruby rivulets cling to the man’s skin like water, framing the frantic, almost manic glint in his eyes.

Standing in front of him, Gi-hun is a mere man, gazing upon art that surpasses his own mortal comprehension.

“Young-il...”

Gi-hun’s in the eye of a hurricane. In the distance, a storm rages, tearing down all in its path. But here – here, in this tiny pocket of calm – the tempestuous gale from beyond the eyewall can’t reach him.

He should know better than to believe, even for a second, that peace can exist in a place like this. He really should, but it seems as though he’s yet to learn his lesson.

Young-il’s face shifts, eyes tearing away to look at something over Gi-hun’s shoulder. Gi-hun twists his torso to get a look, angling his body just in time to see the person behind him dash forward with an arm raised. With a gasp, he tries to dodge, but the attacker notices and tries to accommodate for his sudden movement. The bottle misses his head and makes contact with his upper arm instead, shattering upon impact in a shower of sharp fragments.

Gi-hun’s vision flashes white. Instantly, a surge of blinding pain tears through the appendage, a curse flying from his lips.

When his vision finally clears, he sees a man in front of him. Looking down at the number on his chest, Gi-hun searches his memory for the name that matches the face in front of him.

Finally, it hits him. This must be Kyung-su, the man who’d lured him and Young-il to the room during Mingle.

The attacker – Kyung-su – glances down at the floor where Jong-soo has slid, unable to stand on his feet any longer. The man turns back, voice shaking as he speaks.

“W-what the fuck did you do to him?!” Gi-hun brings one of his hands up to his jaw, dipping his fingertips into the sticky warmth trailing down the side of his face. A stray shard of glass must have scratched him. The stench of copper envelopes him, filling his mouth with its distinct, metallic tang.

Kyung-su opens his mouth and closes it again. The man pauses, then slips his hand into his pocket. He pulls out a fork stained with dry blood, and points it between him and Young-il threateningly.

“Which one of you did it? Which one of you killed him!” Kyung-su shouts, gesturing around wildly with the utensil. From the sound of Jong-soo’s laboured breathing, it doesn’t seem like the man is dead just yet, but Gi-hun decides it wouldn’t be very appropriate to point that out. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and slides his eyes over to Young-il. For the first time, Gi-hun notices the object the man is holding – the thing he stabbed into Jong-soo’s neck. The flickering lights make it a little hard to see, but it’s definitely not a fork.

A shard of glass? No, it has a handle.

...A dagger, he has a dagger.

Kyung-su keeps shouting, trying to imbue confidence into his voice, even as he sways unsteadily on his feet.

“Fuck you! I’ll kill you both!”

Gi-hun frowns. He needs to de-escalate the situation. Before he can open his mouth to do that, Kyung-su moves, flying towards him with his fork raised. Gi-hun flinches and ducks off to the side, narrowly missing the other man’s attack. Kyung-su shouts in frustration, twisting his body in preparation to lunge again.

This time, Gi-hun manages to swerve around the man’s attack. He moves past the man and begins to back up slowly, eyeing Kyung-su warily.

Before he knows it, he’s stepping into the empty space beside Young-il. Their shoulders touch, bumping as Gi-hun considers his next move. He needs to check on Young-mi. He needs to find Hyun-ju. He needs-

“Gi-hun.” Gi-hun turns at the sound of Young-il’s gentle voice. He looks up, meeting the man’s eye before moving his gaze lower, to the gap between their bodies.

Young-il holds out the dagger – a silent offer. A question, hanging in the air like a breath yet to be released.

Oh.

Gi-hun’s first instinct is to refuse. To shake his head at the vile suggestion, because even when it comes to moments like this, he’s not a killer. The first and last time he’d considered taking someone’s life was four years ago and even then, his conviction had been weak – full of fissures that Sae-byeok had exploited with ease. After that moment, he knew he never wanted to take that path, if he could avoid it. Knew he couldn’t.

But, on the other hand, Gi-hun had promised himself he’d end this, no matter what lengths he’d have to go to.

What if he has no choice? What if this sacrifice is one he has to make?

In the back of his mind, Gi-hun finds something morbidly amusing about the notion. Would he really have to stoop to the same level as Young-il to bring an end to this? It seems ridiculous, but Gi-hun can’t shake the possibility from his mind.

Thoughts running wild, Gi-hun darts his eyes up to Young-il. The other man stares back patiently, seemingly bored. However, behind that carefully erected wall of indifference, Gi-hun can see it – a glint of hope disguised so well, it might as well be invisible.

A foreign emotion stirs inside Gi-hun, bearing its beastly claws. He brings a surprisingly steady hand up and grasps the handle of the offered blade, accepting it without a word.

Kyung-su says something, but his words sound muffled, like they’ve been spoken underwater. Gi-hun lets his feet take the first step and suddenly, the world around him snaps back into focus.

The lights flicker like a stuttering pulse as Kyung-su charges, swinging his fork through the air awkwardly. Before he can get too close, Gi-hun raises his arm and points the tip of the dagger forward – a warning. Kyung-su freezes, eyeing the blade cautiously.

“You should leave.”

Please. I don’t want to have to do this.

Gi-hun isn't really expecting it to work. If anything, he’s only trying to grasp at the edges of his own fraying mind to stop his sanity unravelling further, past the point of no return.

No, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s only one way this will end.

Gi-hun sees the exact moment Kyung-su realises the same thing. The man’s face folds, crumpling in resignation, before settling into something that resembles determination.

Gi-hun can feel Young-il’s stare searing into the side of his head. Suddenly, his cold skin feels hot with adrenaline. A surge of confidence washes over him, loosening the tight knots of hesitation binding him to the spot. In one clean movement, he leans forward and swipes the dagger through the air, missing Kyung-su’s face by a fraction of a centimetre.

“Shit!”

The man staggers backwards, flailing to regain his balance. Surging forwards, Gi-hun seizes the opportunity and strategically brings the dagger down against the other man’s shoulder, ripping straight through his jacket and the delicate skin beneath.

Kyung-su yells out and drops his fork. The utensil clatters to the floor, forgotten.

Gi-hun looks down at the dagger in his hand and fights the urge to gag, torn between letting go of the thing and clutching it tighter. When he squints, he can see his own face in the blade’s lustrous surface, swimming in crimson waves.

Gi-hun swallows. His saliva burns like acid but he ignores the sensation and looks up, debating where to strike next. If possible, he’d like to make this quick. He darts his gaze between the other man’s neck and heart, unsure.

In front of him, Kyung-su manages to recover enough to reach down and grab his fork again, leaning back up with a loud wince. With his dominant hand unable to grip the piece of cutlery tightly, Kyung-su is forced to transfer it to his other, less dominant one. The determination in the man’s expression falters, grim uncertainty beginning to bleed through.

Gi-hun exhales shakily. The blade in his hand sings, urging him to take another step. Its savage melody flows through him, feeding the vengeful, crazed beast stirring within his chest.

Idly, he thinks of the pain he felt losing Sang-woo and his mother, and the years that followed – empty days and even emptier nights all blurring into one. He thinks of ever opportunity missed and confession left unspoken, biting back a sob. He’ll never get those things back, no matter how badly he yearns for them. They’re lost to him now. Gone.

He swings the dagger – once, twice. Kyung-su dodges both times.

He had everything he could have wanted back then. Barely a won to his name and yet, he might as well have had the entire world in the palm of his hand. He was stupid, for calling the number on the card that day. It would have been difficult, but there must have been another way for him to get the money his mother needed for her treatment. Difficult, but certainly not impossible.

...And Sang-woo? Well, if Gi-hun hadn’t joined the games, Sang-woo would have won.

Gi-hun’s still stupid – for coming back here again, thinking he could give a meaning to pain he’d endured all those years ago. Perhaps, Sang-woo deserved to win. Never mind the bullet that ended him on that stairway a few days ago – Gi-hun should have died four years ago, by the will of Sang-woo’s knife.

Yes. Sang-woo should have killed him-

Another slash. Kyung-su’s eyes blow wide in fear, the confidence in the man’s demeanour crumbling away. He lifts his arms up in surrender, but it’s too late. Gi-hun eyes Kyung-su's exposed chest and lunges, aiming for the heart.

If there’s one thing Gi-hun will remember about the following sequence of events, it’s the sound Kyung-su makes. It’s quiet – barely audible – but in that moment, the other man’s stuttering gasp is the loudest noise in the room.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

Gi-hun lets go of the dagger and trips backwards. Kyung-su’s hands replace Gi-hun’s own, hovering over the handle as his face twitches. The man stares down at his chest, eyes unfocused. Lip trembling.

A warm hand lands on Gi-hun’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Gi-hun twists his body away from the harrowing sight in front him and searches for Young-il’s eyes, almost desperately. He needs some sort of justification for what he just did. An affirmation to bandage his conscience, anything.

The lights flicker, and he finds them. With rapt focus, Young-il’s gaze trails from Gi-hun’s eyes across to his cheek before falling down further, to the line of his jaw.

Slowly, as though they have all the time in the world, Young-il lets go of Gi-hun’s shoulder and moves his hand upwards. A set of gentle fingers brush against his cheek, swiping through the blood with a warm thumb.

Gi-hun doesn’t say anything. There’s so much he could say and yet, standing in front of Young-il again, he can’t string the words together. To their left, Kyung-su’s knees hit the floor with a soft thud. The sound carries a finality so pronounced – so decisive – Gi-hun can feel his own knees tremble, growing weak.

“I-“

He pauses, and tries again.

“I didn’t want to-”

Young-il doesn’t say anything and for that, Gi-hun is thankful. A moment drags by, distant screams filling the wordless void between them. Young-il’s hand slips away from his jaw and moves, achingly slow, to wrap around his arm instead.

With a hand pressed against his back, the other man leads him away from Kyung-su’s body. It’s oddly kind – uncharacteristically considerate.

Young-il guides him to the wall, letting Gi-hun rest his weight against it as he glances at something on the ground a few metres away. Feeling sick, Gi-hun realises what he’s looking at. With a surge of panic, he reaches forward and grabs at the sleeve of Young-il’s jacket, a plea falling from his lips.

“Please.” Young-il looks down at Gi-hun’s hand, an indiscernible expression written across his face. Just as Gi-hun’s about to repeat himself, the other man nods and pulls away.

Young-il crosses the distance quickly, falling to his knees beside Young-mi’s motionless body. Gi-hun watches him gently shift her hair away from her neck, dread rooting him to the spot.

Ten seconds. That’s how long Young-il holds his fingers against her neck, checking for a pulse. Gi-hun holds his breath and counts. He waits and waits until finally, Young-il sits up again. The other man meets his eye, conveying a thousand words with a single look.

No.

Gi-hun closes his eyes, turning away.

“Young-mi!”

Footsteps. A person rushes past him, shouting. Gi-hun would laugh at the timing if the situation wasn’t so fucked up.

“What’s going on?“ Hyun-ju begs, voice thick with panic.

Young-il says something to her, a quiet apology. Hyun-ju chokes out a sob so loud and broken, Gi-hun’s sure it will haunt him for years. In the distance, something heavy, presumably a bed frame, falls to the ground with a loud crash.

“No. No. Young-mi-“

Gi-hun peels his eyes open, regretting his decision immediately. Hyun-ju is on her knees, leaning over Young-mi’s body as she tries to shake the woman awake. A section of her left sleeve is stained black, confirming what Gi-hun had been suspecting. She’d been attacked again, before she could follow him.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to be bleeding too bad. After a series of hapless events, it’s a small miracle. Even so, Gi-hun would be tone-deaf not to realise how bittersweet of a detail it is, given the current situation.

Young-il walks over, giving Hyun-ju a moment to herself. The man gives him a quick once over before he speaks, voice blunter than usual.

“Let me see your arm.”

Gi-hun turns silently, holding the appendage out for Young-il to inspect. The other man steps closer and reaches out, not for his arm, but for the zipper of his jacket. Gi-hun flinches backwards, raising his hands in protest.

“What are you doing?” Young-il gives him a blank look, like he’s just said something in a completely different language.

“I need to take a good look. Is that a problem?” Gi-hun blinks. He isn’t sure what Young-il is looking to gain from this. If it’s pleasure at seeing him bruised and beaten, the man can fucking have it. Gi-hun doesn’t care anymore.

Lifting his arm again, he allows Young-il to continue. The other man tugs the zipper down and carefully guides his arm out of the jacket, exposing it to the room’s cold, biting air. Young-il wastes no time, crowding closer.

Gi-hun swallows sharply, arm twitching beneath the other man’s hot touch. Young-il grabs his wrist with his free hand, holding him still.

Feather light, the man’s fingertips touch where Kyung-su’s bottle shattered against his arm. Under the room’s flashing light, Gi-hun can’t really see anything yet. By tomorrow, he’s sure the skin there will be a deep, blue-ish purple – an ugly reminder of today’s events.

“Is this really necessary?” Gi-hun asks, attempting to fill the awkward silence between them. Screams of varying pitches assail his ears, making it difficult to hear his own voice.

Young-il ignores him. The man asks a question of his own, continuing his appraisal with unbroken focus.

“Do you regret it?”

Gi-hun’s body grows cold. He’d wanted to forget what just transpired but of course, Young-il just had to ask – to stir the dying ashes of Gi-hun’s anger, looking for a spark.

Regret?

Gi-hun waits, letting the silence stretch on before replying. His voice carries a hard edge that he hopes Young-il will mistake for conviction.

“No.”

A beat. Young-il’s fingers abruptly slip away, letting Gi-hun’s arm fall to his side. The lights flicker – on, off and on again. The man’s gaze darts up to Gi-hun’s face, regarding the expression he sees there with a quiet contemplation.

Then, he nods, wordlessly accepting Gi-hun’s answer.

‘No.’

Gi-hun can only hope, with every ounce of desperation in his worn, tired bones, that what he just told Young-il was a lie.